From Yesterday
by gaelicspirit
Summary: Post Season 5, AU. Stripped of their Heavenly help and their friends, their reality changed, pushing them back to a bare-bones approach to life, the brothers learn to redefine normal. Though they stopped the Apocalypse, there is still evil in the world and it touches someone they thought they'd never hear from again. Is it enough to compel both brothers to start hunting again?
1. Part One: Prologue

**Title: **From Yesterday  
**Fandom:** Supernatural  
**Author**: gaelicspirit  
**Characters:** Dean, Sam, and OCs  
**Disclaimer:** They're not mine. More's the pity. Title is from a 30 Seconds to Mars song of the same name. Rated very much PG-13 for language (mostly Dean) and a couple of mature scenes.

**Summary**: Post Season 5, AU. Stripped of their Heavenly help and their friends, their reality changed with that loss, pushing them back to a bare-bones approach to life, the brothers learn to redefine normal. However, though they stopped the Apocalypse, there is still evil in the world and it touches someone they thought they'd never hear from again. Is it enough to compel both brothers to start hunting again?

**Author's Note:** So...it's been awhile since I've written and posted a multi-chapter fic. I actually wanted to post this much earlier in the hiatus, but life forced my hand a bit, and I decided to complete several chapters before I started posting. It will be told in two parts – each part will be roughly 8-10 chapters long – and part one is completed.

AU heads up: This story tracks the end of 5.22, _Swan Song_…with some very specific changes. In this reality, the outcome of the battle at Stull Cemetery is decidedly different, taking the brothers on an alternate path than the one they traveled in Seasons 6 and beyond.

Fair warning: though this is definitely a story about the Winchester brothers, an OC from my past stories, the druid Brenna Kavanagh, is a key character in part two. I've written this so that it's not necessary for you to read the previous stories in which she appears to understand her relationship to the brothers, but it might help add layers to her story.

I hope you enjoy!

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"…_for a fortune, he'd quit but it's hard to admit  
how it ends and begins.  
On his face is a map of the world…"_

- 30 Seconds to Mars, _From Yesterday_

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_When I think about my brother, there's always this invisible dividing line that seems to hover just before him – a line that separates Dean from everyone else. He was always in a category apart, not only because of who he was to me, but because of what he did for the world. _

_Dean never saw that line. _

_To him, it was simply about doing the job. The job that defined him, that marked him and that drove him…until he ran out of road._

_- _Excerpt from_ "Roadtrip with My Brother: A Memoir" _by Samuel Winchester

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**PART ONE: It Ends**

**Detroit, MI, 2010**

It was falling apart.

They'd been up against giants and their slingshots were empty.

The one thing Castiel would remember about this night – if he were allowed to remember anything – would be the way the darkness had texture. The kinetic energy shimmering around him seemed to groan and stretch as he followed Bobby to where Dean stood by the trunk of the Impala. The city was simply a backdrop to the moment; the traffic noises, the sirens, the general racket of _people_ seeming to fade as the world took a breath in anticipation of what was to come.

It seemed the roar of the moments before had perhaps deafened them – or numbed them – to their current reality. Sam saying yes, Lucifer stepping in, Dean left alone and hollowed-out in the center of that destroyed room…it was all a bit too much to process for the humans he'd paired himself with and was too close to a Heavenly _I told you so_ for Castiel to swallow.

The wet cement squelched beneath their shoes as they approached. Dean closed the trunk and looked up, stone-faced, his eyes skimming their faces, not looking directly at either of them. Castiel recognized this expression. He'd seen it so many times before he'd actually lost count.

And he knew the number of stars in the sky.

"You goin' someplace?" Bobby's voice sounded empty as he addressed Dean. Castiel looked at the older man, seeing sorrow weighing down his soul, and suddenly knew how many heartbeats Bobby had left. "You're goin' to do somethin' stupid," Bobby continued, his tone an accusation. "You got that look."

"I'm gonna talk to Sam."

Castiel felt the night step closer. In an instant, thousands of options for what to say or do next blossomed in his mind and were summarily dismissed. There had never been another choice for Dean; he would destroy himself to save his brother. Castiel had always known that to be irrefutable fact.

Castiel was the only being in existence that could change the outcome of this moment.

Bobby's shoulders bowed slightly with Dean's words. "You just don't give up."

"It's _Sam_!"

Dean looked at Bobby then and Castiel felt something shift deep within himself – as if his vessel's heart were breaking, though that was a physical impossibility. Pain and a desperate plea for acceptance or understanding bled from Dean's eyes as he looked at his mentor.

Those two words defined every choice this man had ever made.

Castiel had known it the minute he'd grabbed Dean from the rack deep within the bowels of Hell, felt Dean's soul sear beneath his touch, binding them on a level the angel had never before experienced.

"If you couldn't reach him here, you're certainly not going to be able to on the battlefield," Castiel calmly pointed out, hoping to somehow reach Dean with logic.

He should have known better.

Dean's eyes shifted from Bobby's face to his and the plea evaporated leaving only resolve. "Well, if we've already lost, I guess I got nothing to lose, right?"

Castiel stepped forward, the night clinging to him like a cobweb. "I just want you to understand – the only thing that you're going to see out there is Michael killing your brother."

It was his last-ditch effort, his final attempt to bring Dean back from the brink, to remind him that Sam had chosen, Sam had said _yes_. That none of this was Dean's fault, nor was it Dean's responsibility. It was his way of telling Dean that the world still needed him. That _Castiel_ still needed him.

"Well, then," Dean replied, his eyes empty, face impassive. "I ain't gonna let him die alone."

Castiel felt the darkness sigh as if it had won, its painful grip lessening for the briefest of moments. Dean's gaze pulled inward as he opened the door of the Impala. Castiel curled his fingers against his palms, a surge of impotent power rushing beneath the delicate confines of his vessel's skin.

This was it. The time was now. He could delay no longer.

"Wait," Castiel said, too quietly.

"Balls!" Bobby growled, thumping his fist on the hood of the car as Dean slid behind the wheel of the car, reaching to close the door. Without another word, Bobby turned away, stalking back toward the entrance of the hotel as if on a mission.

Dean pulled at the heavy door of the car, the creak of the Impala's hinges a familiar cadence, one that Castiel knew he would miss. It was a sound that meant _Dean_ and _home_ and _brotherhood_ and _family_.

"Dean, wait!" he repeated, pulling Dean up short.

Dean looked at him. "What is it, Cas?" His tone was clipped, impatient. "An hour ago, you were ready to drink a liquor store and wait for the blast wave."

Castiel swallowed. He had been present when God pulled star matter from the universe and turned it into life. He had seen men create and destroy over millennia. He had been a Warrior of the Lord and fought legions of demons. He'd laid waste to Hell to search for one shining light of a human soul among the roiling mass of chaos.

Yet this was the hardest thing he'd ever done.

"There's something you don't know," Castiel choked out, at once part of the moment and outside of it, staring in wonder at the difficulty honesty was causing him.

He felt his throat working, air trapped in his lungs going stale and stagnant as he denied it an escape. His eyes burned; he was staring so hard at Dean he felt he'd light his friend on fire.

And the darkness flexed its claws.

"What are you talking about?" Dean still hadn't emerged from the Impala, one foot on the gas pedal, the other outside on the pavement. He had one hand on the keys settled in the ignition and the other still reaching for the door, the tips of his fingers turning white as they gripped the handle.

Castiel stepped back, needing Dean free of the Impala's shelter before he said his piece. "There's something…," he glanced up the alley, but Bobby hadn't returned. "Something I haven't told you."

"Spit it out, man. I got like a twelve hour drive ahead of me."

Castiel reached into his pocket, feeling the heat of the metal. He took a slow breath, relaxing his shoulders and allowed his wings to stretch out. They were mere shadows against the dark of the alley, invisible to Dean's eyes, but they reminded Castiel who he was, why he was here, and what he had to do. He withdrew his hand from his pocket, Dean's amulet hanging from his fingers by the bit of leather, its brass surface catching a beam from the security light on the building above the Impala.

"Son of a bitch," Dean breathed, stepping out of the car and reaching for the amulet as if drawn forward by a magnet. "But…how?"

Castiel released his hold on the amulet as soon as Dean's fingers closed around it.

"I watch you," he said calmly, quietly.

Dean's brows pulled together, the line between them alerting Castiel to the fact that something he said was not quite right.

"You…watch me?" Dean looked up, still holding the amulet a bit away from him, as if expecting it to explode.

"Yes," Castiel nodded. "Not just you. All of you. You see, I'm…," he looked down, searching for a word that Dean could understand or would accept, that meant everything he was to them, everything he did _because_ _of_ them. "I'm your guardian."

Dean pulled his head back slightly, the line between his brows smoothing a bit. "Guardian."

Castiel nodded again; pleased he seemed to have chosen the correct term. "I watch over you – over all of you. I have for years."

Dean was frowning again and Castiel felt the texture of the night once more.

"What do you mean you…_watch_ _over_ us?"

"I wasn't allowed to interfere," Castiel hastened to explain, fearing this was going south quickly. "Not until you were taken to Hell. I was only to watch and…record."

Dean took a step back, his fingers closing in a grip around the amulet. "Wait…." His lips parted, seeming to attempt to form around words that he couldn't articulate.

"I saw you born, Dean. You and Sam. I saw Azazel take your mother. I saw your youth. I saw your father sell his soul to save you. I saw it all."

The line was back on Dean's brow and Castiel felt his skin ripple with anxiety. It was _vital_ that he get this right.

"You…you were _there_?"

"I observed," Castiel repeated. "In the shadows, watching. You and Sam are special, Dean. Your destinies are entwined with our fate."

Dean looked askance, and Castiel saw him work once more to find the right words. He tried to fill them in.

"We knew you were destined to be Michael's Sword; Sam, Lucifer's vessel. Your parents were brought together for that purpose."

Dean held up his free hand. "Hold on just a damn minute," he snapped, turning once more to look at Castiel, his eyes heated. "You're telling me that the whole time my family was being ripped apart, you were _there_? And you did _nothing_?"

Castiel instinctively stretched his wings once more, hearing the darkness groan in protest. He'd known this would not be easy. He never wanted to tell Dean any of this. He'd never expected to form a friendship with Michael's vessel. He'd never expected a human to mean so much to him that he was willing to rebel against Heaven, against his own family. He'd never expected half of the things he'd been through to happen simply because he knew Dean Winchester.

But happen they had. And now he was out of options.

"You have seen the power of Heaven. The power of the Arch Angels. You understand what it means to follow orders. You know what it means when I tell you I was _not allowed_ to interfere."

Dean closed his mouth, bringing his chin up. Castiel could see that his words got through, even if Dean didn't like what they meant.

"Until I pulled you from that rack, Dean, you were a _mission_. An assignment."

Dean squared his shoulders at the mention of Hell. "And after?"

Castiel looked down at his hand, remembering the searing feeling of his energy merging with Dean's humanity. Dean wasn't even really _flesh_ in Hell. He was simply a soul. But he suffered as if he were flesh. He died as if he were flesh. And when Castiel found him, he appeared in the flesh, his body broken, his will chained, his spirit a flame.

"After," he said quietly, hearing his vessel's voice slip out through numbing lips, the sound like crushed gravel. "You became my friend."

Dean stood still. Castiel could detect a faint tremor running through his friend's body – anxiety, anxiousness, exhaustion. He was facing a terrible choice, an impossible fate. And Castiel was about to turn up the heat.

"And this?" Dean opened his fist, revealing the amulet resting against his palm.

"I saw you throw it away," Castiel told him. "I hadn't left the room; I had simply vanished from your sight."

Dean pressed his lips outward, his brows meeting over the bridge of his nose. "You do that often?"

Castiel nodded. "Quite often, yes."

"So you were just…there. Invisible. Watching us?"

"It is the job of the guardian to observe."

Dean rolled his neck as if suddenly in pain. "Not for nothin', Cas, but, uh…that's really creepy."

"I _have_ learned a good deal about human habits."

"Oh, God, I can't know that."

If he'd had more time, there were several things he wanted to ask Dean about, now that he knew he'd been observed. But Castiel had learned that when Dean wore that particular pained expression, he'd stepped over one of the many invisible lines humans drew around their comfort zones. He didn't have time to venture further into distraction.

"I saw what my statement about the amulet caused you to do."

Dean looked down at the amulet resting on the palm of his hand. "You said it was worthless."

"I was wrong," Castiel said, regret woven through his voice.

He'd been wrong about so many things. One of them his blind faith in his family, in his Father's plan, in the trust he'd had in his brothers. He'd been so very, _very_ wrong.

"Come again?" Dean was staring at him, a slow-burn of hope lighting the corners of his eyes. "Wait, are you telling me…God can get us out of this?"

Castiel shook his head sadly. "Unfortunately for us all, no. He really has…left."

The pain he felt at those words went deeper than the heart of his vessel. They cut to the core of his angelic _self_, the light and power that he kept contained all day every day. For a moment, he felt it flex upward, outward, shifting the shadows of his wings to push back the tangible night. Dean brought his head up at the sound, no way of knowing what it was, but reacting to it all the same.

"So…what's the point of all of this, huh? How's it gonna help me save Sam?"

Castiel lifted his chin, needing to find the right words once more. "As I said, your destiny is tied to our fate – the fate of the angels. It was no accident that the amulet found its way to you."

"Sam was going to give it to Dad." Dean exhaled the memory. "But Dad wasn't there."

"It was meant for _you_, Dean. The amulet is a beacon for God. But it is not God our Father it will help us find."

Dean took a slow breath, closing his eyes. "You're gonna have to do better than that, Cas."

"The amulet is a beacon to find the _power_ of God."

Rolling his lips against his teeth, Dean tilted his head to the side before opening his eyes. "Say what now?"

"You were made in God's image, Dean. Every human was. Some are flawed beyond repair, too lost, too…twisted to find that reflection. But others," he leaned forward slightly, his eyes on Dean's, willing him to understand. "Others have righteousness inside of them."

Dean closed his fingers in a fist around the amulet. He seemed to be holding his breath, his entire being tense.

"_You_ are the righteous man, Dean. The one who can stop this."

Dean's frown was sudden and fierce. "Bull shit."

Castiel shook his head, confused. "This has nothing to do with—"

"You told me I had to stop Lucifer from rising." Dean's voice was pitched low, but Castiel felt as if he were screaming. Though Dean didn't advance, Castiel wanted to retreat. He was an angel of the Lord, but this human's rage emanated from him in waves strong enough to push him away. "And I _failed_."

"I was wrong."

"You were wrong," Dean repeated, bringing his fist to his mouth as if to stop himself from saying more. Turning away, he leaned his arms on the roof of the Impala, standing in the still-open driver's side door. "Y'know, Cas? I'm so fucking sick of this. Of all this shit – angels and demons and master plans and mysterious ways." He bowed his neck, resting his forehead on his wrists. "I'm just a regular guy trying to keep his family alive. And you guys keep trying to stop me."

"That's not true," Castiel countered.

Dean turned, moving toward Castiel with such speed the angel backed up several steps. "You shut the hell up!" He pointed at Castiel's chest, the leather from the amulet swaying beneath his clenched fist. "You wait until _now_ to tell me you've been our guardian? You wait until _**now**_ to give me this goddamned charm? Now after Sam is _gone_? After telling me he's _lost_? That Michael and Lucifer are going to beat the shit out of each other until they destroy my brother? _Now_?!"

"I admit the timing isn't ideal—"

"Tell you what, you can take your fuckin' God beacon and shove it up your ass." Dean rotated on his toes, reared back his arm and Castiel knew he would have thrown the amulet far beyond any of their ability to find.

"Dean! _STOP_!"

Castiel's voice bellowed, calling down lightning from a storm-free sky, exploding the bulb in the security light, sending cars parked nearby rocking, their theft alarms squawking, turning the darkness inside out as the shadows of his wings stretched out beyond both of their human vessels. Dean ducked, bringing his arms up in retaliation.

"Do nothing. Stand. And listen."

His voice shook through Dean; he saw his friend pull in, gathering himself in instinctive protection, eyes darting to take in the display of angelic power suddenly thrust upon him. Castiel stepped forward, working to shove the night back, focusing on the tactile, the tangible. The wet leaves clinging to the pavement. The beads of sweat rolling down Dean's left temple. The metallic smell of the amulet clutched in Dean's grip.

The very human sensations of _loss_ and _fear_ and _need_ and _want_. The yearning for this all to be settled and for his friends – for they were so much more than assignments now – to be safe and whole and together. And the gut-twisting knowledge that he'd had the ability to stop this, control it at the very least, had he only _believed_.

"It was written," Castiel began, forcing himself to temper the power in his voice, to pull his wings close, "that a righteous man would break in Hell, and the first seal would be opened."

"Yeah," Dean croaked, slowly straightening up once more. Castiel watched in admiration as Dean pulled his fear inside; stilling the tremble of his hands and staring steadily back at the angel. "I got that part. How about skipping ahead to how that helps me _now_?"

"It wasn't supposed to be you."

Dean's jaw set and he dropped his chin, keeping his eyes on Castiel. "I know that part, too. I wasn't as strong as my dad."

Castiel shook his head. "You are stronger."

"Wait, what? I broke the seal, man. I started all this."

"And you can end it."

"_How_? The Devil's already out of his Cage – or haven't you been paying attention over the last year?"

"You are Michael's Sword – his _chosen_ vessel. Adam's resurrected being will not be enough to contain him."

"Great, so you guys managed to screw over all the Winchesters," Dean snarled. "Well done."

"You were born to be Michael's vessel," Castiel continued, "but you were never meant to carry the burden of being a vessel _and_ of being the righteous man." Castiel shook his head sadly.

"What are you saying…," Dean frowned, understanding slowly beginning to dawn. "_Dad_ was supposed to break the seal…so that Sam and I could become meat suits for angels?"

"Basically…yes. For _both_ to fall upon you," Castiel tilted his head, once more searching for a way to help Dean believe. "Not only are two destinies too much for one human…there is no way to fulfill both. One is the role of destruction, the other of salvation."

"Okay, now you're just talking crazy."

Castiel looked at Dean's closed fist. "The amulet finds the power of God inside the righteous."

"Oh, so I've got the power of God _in_ me?" Dean's eyebrows bounced up, his tone sardonic. "Could've used that tidbit an hour ago, Cas."

Castiel rubbed his forehead. This was not going as well as he needed it to. He always tangled up the words, trying to find the right ones to help Dean understand. Not for the first time he wished that Dean was able to hear his true voice, the one he used that first day after watching the man claw his way from his own shallow grave. But it had nearly shattered Dean's eardrums then, and that would get him no further toward understanding now.

Looking up at Dean now he felt something inside of him tremble, remembering so many times he'd heard Dean's human heart call out for help – when he was a young child, when he was a youth, when he lost his father, when he feared for his brother. It wasn't a conscious prayer; it was simply a steady flow of _please_, with all thoughts on another, all hope for another, all energy focused outward.

"I failed you," Castiel said softly. "I failed you because I…I didn't believe. I still don't. But it isn't _me_ who needs to believe, Dean. It's you."

"Believe?" Dean replied, his eyes bright, his voice fragile, echoing off the spun glass of the night. "Believe what?"

"I thought the amulet would help me find God; I searched for my Father because I wanted answers. I wanted…I wanted someone's help to _fix this_." Castiel kept his eyes on the ground, tracing the cracks in the asphalt, avoiding looking directly at Dean. "I found out that I was…doing it wrong. It won't work for me."

"Who told you that?"

Castiel nearly smiled at the defensive tone wrapped around Dean's words, even now, protecting his friend. "It doesn't matter."

"The hell it doesn't," Dean countered.

"Joshua," Castiel whispered. He heard Dean suck in a breath. He knew that Sam and Dean had met Joshua, knew what the angel had told them. He only wished he'd been there to tell them that the Heaven they saw wasn't his Heaven, his home. "Joshua told me."

"Joshua," Dean repeated, his tone betraying his doubt. "The gardener? _That_ Joshua?"

"I assure you he is much more than that," Castiel replied.

Dean sighed, twisting the toe of his boot in against the damp asphalt, grinding small stones under the tread of his sole, the minute sound echoing against Castiel's sensitive ears.

"This is friggin' crazy," Dean muttered.

Castiel looked up, purposely capturing his power in his gaze, and met Dean's eyes, drawing him in. "I've watched you all your life, Dean Winchester. But I never really knew you until I saw your soul shining – like a beacon – in the depths of the darkest corner of the Pit. You led me to you, showed me the way."

"I…I don't—"

"If you believe," Castiel interrupted Dean's stutter of protest, "if you _really_ believe, you will be able to call upon the power of righteousness and save your brother from the same fate you suffered."

Dean looked down at the amulet. "With this?"

"It unites you," Castiel told him, recalling vividly the moment Sam gifted Dean with the amulet in a lonely, cold motel room. "But you have to _believe._"

"Believe…_what_?" Dean repeated.

Castiel glanced away. "In God. In His ability to work through you. In the truth that you and Sam together can prevail over the greatest evil the world has ever known. In righteousness. In each other."

Dean swallowed. "That's a lot."

"It is."

Silence hung suspended between them for a moment.

"Why now, Cas?"

Castiel dropped his hands into the pockets of his trench coat, suddenly, impossibly tired. "I did not think it would work."

"Oh, but _now_ you do?"

Castiel looked at his friend. "It doesn't matter if _I_ do."

"It matters to me."

Castiel stepped closer to Dean. "I lost my faith, Dean. I lost my…trust. In a plan bigger than me. Than us. I felt betrayed by my family. And I didn't _want_ to believe."

"And you were gambling on Sam and me not giving in to these bastards, that it?" Dean was watching him closely.

"I was very much against it, yes."

"Very much against it…," Dean's voice trailed off for a moment and he looked down the alley. "You beat me half to death when I tried."

"I may have been a bit over zealous."

Inexplicably, Dean's face blossomed into a small, sad grin. "Goddamn, I'm gonna miss you, Cas." He reached out his empty hand and rested it on Castiel's shoulder.

A strange burn began in Castiel's chest, working with alarming speed to this throat and eyes. He lifted his hand and reciprocated Dean's casual touch, feeling his vessel's heart begin to shake. He knew Dean was right; no matter how this ended, it was going to _end_. And his guardianship was over. He'd known that the moment he watched Sam Winchester's soul disappear from his eyes.

"You must be able to find Sam," Castiel instructed him, not dropping his hand even after Dean did. "Your brother's soul is still intact; he's still inside there with Lucifer. But…I must caution you: if you use the amulet, there will be consequences."

"Naturally," Dean sighed.

"I don't know the lengths to which the beacon will mark you," Castiel continued.

"Of course not."

"And you must have the strength to say a phrase in Enochian."

"All righty then."

Castiel frowned. "Why are you taking this so well?"

"Are you kidding?" Dean chuckled mirthlessly. "Cas, I just watched _Lucifer_ take over my brother. A year ago, I didn't believe the Devil really existed and I just talked to the son of a bitch." His face slipped free of emotion and he stared hard at Castiel. "Now, if there's some spell or something I can say to help Sam, lay it on me, because I will do _anything_. And you know that."

Castiel nodded. He did know. It was part of the reason Dean was the only human he knew who might have a chance to actually make the amulet work. "Lonsa el balt cnila."

"Gesundheit."

"It means: _The power of righteousness is safe in the blood_." Castiel brought his chin up. "But you have to say it in Enochian. Lonsa el balt cnila."

Dean repeated the phrase, then muttered it twice more. Gripping the amulet in his right hand, he nodded once, decisively. "I got it."

"I will give you whatever help I can," Castiel promised.

"No, Cas." Dean shook his head. "You stay away from that place. You've done enough; I don't want to lose you, too."

Castiel felt the burning surge once more and recognized it finally as tears. He never knew human tears could physically hurt. His vision blurred as he regarded his friend, and without a word, he tightened the grip he still had on Dean's shoulder, pulling Dean close against him and wrapping his other arm around Dean's side. At first Dean held himself stiffly, clearly surprised by the sudden, unexpected show of emotion. Then, tentatively, he raised his arms, gripping Castiel across the back.

"I am afraid this is the end of our journey together," Castiel said, his voice muffled against Dean's shoulder. "Thank you."

"For what?" Dean asked, holding Castiel just a bit tighter.

"For showing me the resilience of humanity." Castiel released Dean, then stepped back. "And for being my friend."

"Cas, don't—"

"You _are_ the righteous man who will end this, Dean. Believe it. Believe it as you believe in family…or in the lessons your father taught you…or in this machine." Castiel nodded toward the Impala.

Dean's grin wavered slightly. Castiel could see tears swimming in Dean's eyes and knew the burn he felt in his chest was echoed in Dean's.

"Okay, man." Dean finally agreed.

"I will be there," Castiel promised. "I will give you what help I can. But it's _you_ who has the power."

"Take care of yourself," Dean implored, helplessly, pulling Castiel in for a tight hug once more. "Get out of there if you can."

Castiel didn't reply. Dean released him and, without a backwards glance, stepped into the Impala and closed the door. As he drove away, Castiel saw that he never released his grip on the amulet. When the Impala's taillights had disappeared, Castiel regarded the night, hearing it groan again as it stretched around him. Opening his hands, palms up, he pushed at the dark, closing his eyes and illuminating the alley with bright, angelic power.

If he was anything beyond celestial energy after this battle, he would remember the texture of this night, and how easily it was held at bay by a single beam of hope.

* * *

**a/n**: And thus begins the alternate path for their journey. I hope you're intrigued enough by this prologue of possibilities to give the rest of the story a shot. It's probably one of the longest I've written; I look forward to your thoughts as you head down this road with me.

And if you read my SPN "Rambles," I'll be starting them up again on LiveJournal next Tuesday when our show returns. Carry on!


	2. Part One: Chapter 1

**Title: **From Yesterday  
**Fandom:** Supernatural  
**Author**: gaelicspirit  
**Characters:** Dean, Sam, and OCs  
**Disclaimer/Summary:** See Prologue

**Author's Note: **Thank you all so much for reading and reviewing! I sincerely appreciate the gift of your time.

I knew I was taking a bit of a chance that everyone would like where I chose to set this story and the direction I am taking it. Some of you have PM'd or reviewed worried that I am taking away Sam's redeeming moment; I can promise you that I didn't look at it that way as I wrote and I hope that if you choose to keep reading, you'll give this idea a shot. _Swan Song_ was just fine as it played out, but I couldn't help but watch it thinking…_what if_? So this is my answer to that question.

Oh, one more thing - I like to shift POVs in my stories. While we opened with Cas', this story really belongs to the boys, so it will be primarily told through their eyes.

Hope you enjoy!

* * *

It wasn't until he stopped for gas in Springfield, Illinois, that Dean realized he'd been driving for hours in silence. His mind had been so full, buzzing with all that had happened, all that could _still_ happen, he felt like there were three of him in the car. He had too much time to think, to allow fear and doubt a toe-hold in his heart.

In retrospect, he probably should have asked Cas to beam him to Lawrence.

But then he wouldn't have had the Impala with him and with the metric ton of uncertainty around him, he wanted at least one familiar thing. He wanted her history and her protection. He wanted her memories. She was the closest thing he'd ever had to a home; she was his tie to his dad, to his past, to his purpose. As strange as it might seem to anyone not a Winchester, she was part of his family, and he needed her with him if he had any hope of doing what he had to do for Sam.

So he drove on, and he sorted through his memories.

Despite the pain, anger, uncertainty and fear of the past few years – and God knew there had been plenty of each – his thoughts kept returning to the last time he'd seen his father. Not flat-lining on a hospital cart or wrapped in a funeral shroud, but had really _seen_ him. The last conversation he'd ever had with him. The look in his father's eyes, the timber of his voice, the impact of his words.

_You took care of Sammy, you took care of me. You did that, and you didn't complain, not once. I just want you to know that I am so proud of you._

As he exited, searching for the Conoco sign he'd seen along the Interstate, Dean felt his skin ripple with chills as he imagined he could hear his father's voice once more. He pulled to a stop next to an empty gas pump and turned off the car, letting the silence tick around him for a moment.

When he stepped out, the cool of the dawn caught him and he instinctively took a breath. He felt a weightless kind of euphoria he always associated with the adrenaline rush necessary to keep him going with no sleep. He'd been up for nearly forty-eight hours with no rest in sight.

Looking over his shoulder, he saw the sun warm the horizon, turning low-hanging, latent storm clouds deep-rose pink edge in the gold of dawn, the sky around them almost blood-red.

"Red sky in the morning," he whispered to himself, letting his eyes linger on the treetops, listening as the world slowly came alive.

As if a switch was flipped, singling the world to _go_, traffic picked up on the nearby highway. Mourning doves took up the last of their chorus, giving way to the more raucous call of the ravens. A radio blared from an open window in a house near the gas station. A dog barked. Someone leaving their house for an early-morning shift let a screen door bang behind them. A car door slammed.

Dean breathed, eyes on the sun as it continued its slow ascent, the red bleeding to rose, and then pale pink as gold took over, chasing the stars and defeating the moon. With what felt like a gasp, the sun crested the Earth's horizon and light stretched out across the bits of life around him, as if arching its back and readying its muscles for the day.

With a startlingly raw sob in the back of his throat, Dean shook himself, stepping away from the warm support of the Impala. He knew it was very possible he'd seen his last sunrise. For a fleeting moment, he remembered that awful night back in Indiana when he'd been hallucinating demons in the faces of his family, when he thought of all the things he'd never do, all the things he'd wanted to do, all the things he should have done…just before the Hounds ripped him apart and dragged him to Hell.

He knew he wasn't just going to meet up with his brother, no matter what he'd said to Bobby and Castiel back in that alley. He wasn't going to just…_talk_ to him. He was going to try to find Sam's soul tucked up away inside his own body, kept prisoner by none other than Lucifer.

And he wasn't going to just walk away from that.

Blinking to clear tears from his eyes, Dean flipped the license plate of the Impala down and inserted the hose, filling up the car with enough fuel to get him the rest of the way to Lawrence. Gaze lingering on the shiny, black surface of the trunk, he remembered another moment when the world had been a staggering weight on his shoulders; he'd beaten the hell out of the Impala with a crowbar simply because it was all just…_too much_. And nothing had made sense.

He missed his father with a truly painful ache that spread from his heart through his chest, into his arms, down his torso, settling in the bones of his legs. He missed their _family_. He missed when it was simply about saving people, hunting things.

He missed his life making sense.

Dean wasn't a complicated person. He had never really thought much past tomorrow. The _moment_ was all that really mattered. But Sam…Sam had always been two steps ahead. Thinking down the road. Sam had a five-year plan. Dean rarely had a five-minute plan.

But it seemed he'd always been part of one. And now he was about to try to rewrite it. Change a destiny. Or maybe fulfill one. He wasn't entirely sure.

He replaced the hose on the gas pump and went inside to pay and grab a cup of coffee. He needed a jolt to keep moving forward. As he entered the empty convenience store section of the gas station, he heard an early-morning news report talking about the strange weather hitting all points of the Midwest, the destruction resulting, and the on-the-street reactions to these recent events. Five sound-bites were aired. Three of them mentioned the Apocalypse.

Dean knew people were scared. He knew that while this might seem intimate to him – a battle between two pairs of brothers – it was so much larger, impacting the world, not just the Winchesters. Dean was willing to sacrifice whatever he had to in order to save his brother, but Sam had made his choice to save the _world_.

The fate of one bartered against the fate of millions. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. It wasn't fair. It would never be fair.

"You need some help, son?"

Dean jerked, startled at the unexpected sound of the voice to his left.

"No," he shook his head. "I'm okay. Just need some coffee."

"Machine's over there," the older man behind the counter replied, gesturing with his thumb to Dean's right.

Dean nodded his thanks, filled up a 16 ounce cup, and grabbed a packaged apple pie slice. He paid for the coffee, food, and gas, sparing another glance at the TV.

"You believe this?" The man asked him, handing him back his change, eyes on the images of an F5 tornado crashing through Chicago the day before. "Like the end of the world."

"Yeah, seems like," Dean muttered his reply. "Thanks."

The man nodded absentmindedly at him, his attention on the television. Dean headed back out to the Impala, sliding behind the wheel before he was able to take a full breath once more. It was hard to fill his lungs; his chest was so damn heavy. This was too big, too much. He wasn't going to make it, be enough.

He needed…_Dad_.

Dropping the pie on the seat next to him, he put his coffee between his legs and carefully leaned over to the glove box. Feeling around, he pulled out the oldest cell phone stashed in there, the one that they'd never tossed, the one Sam hadn't gotten rid of even while Dean had been in Hell. Holding it in one hand, he dialed the number with his phone, letting the older phone vibrate in his palm. He wanted to hear that voice. Not just imagine it.

"_This is __John Winchester__. I can't be reached. If it's an emergency, call my son, Dean. 785-555-0179. He can help."_

Licking his lips, he waited until his father's voice ended and the beep sounded, then he cleared his throat and began talking.

"So, uh, I know this is crazy," Dean said quietly, breaking up the silence around him with the cracked sound of his own voice. "I doubt you can hear me. I mean…we were there. Sam and me. In Heaven. Or, well, a version of it. Point is, we didn't see you, so…."

He paused, took a breath, squirmed slightly in his seat, then readjusted his elbow on the windowsill.

"Okay, so here it is," he pressed on, needing so desperately to talk to _someone_, knowing it was really only himself, and not caring. "First thing I can really remember you telling me was to watch out for Sam. Take care of him. And I have been. But…Dad, this is so much bigger than us. Bigger than anything you taught us about. And I think you knew about it. I think you knew and you were just hoping we'd never find out."

He started up the Impala, letting the rumble of the big machine tremble beneath his legs, behind his back.

"But we did. And now…now I have to go back to Lawrence. Where it all started. I have to go back there and try to talk to Sam. Because…because he's in the biggest fight of his life…and he needs me. If you're hearing me now, you know what we're facing. You know what I have to do…what Sammy's gotta do. I just…," he swallowed hard as his throat tightened and his eyes burned.

"God, I wish you were here," he whispered, closing his eyes, and letting his head drop back against his seat.

In that moment, longing for what had been, for people long gone, for his _family_, struck him hard in the gut and he caught his breath. He had to be strong enough to remind Sam of who he was, to help Sam control his own body despite Lucifer's power. Having never been possessed, Dean had no idea what kind of effort that took, but any fool would know it was going to be nearly impossible.

Their dad had done it once, Dean knew. John had forced Azazel back and away, kept the demon gripped tightly inside, stopping it from killing Dean. He'd asserted his control long enough they'd been able to limp away from the cabin and to the Impala, making a break for it. If John had been able to break free, Dean knew that Sam could.

Sam was his father's son in more ways than Dean knew his brother would admit. Sam had the same undercurrent of strength, the knowledge of demonic power, the memory of what it felt like to have something else control his body.

Sam could do it, Dean knew. He believed it. He just needed to make _Sam_ believe it.

He glanced up at the rear-view mirror once more where the amulet dangled like a pendulum. He hadn't been able to put it back on, not after what Castiel had told him. He wasn't sure if he quite bought the angel's eleventh-hour Hail Mary.

Still, with his arsenal consisting of simple plea to remember their plan, he wasn't going to turn his back on it.

Sighing, he shut off his phone, tossing it into the glove box. In a moment of sentimental weakness, he stuffed his dad's phone into his pocket. It didn't matter, really. No one he knew would be trying to reach him now – except maybe Bobby, trying to talk him out of what he was doing, and if that were the case, he wouldn't listen to him anyway. It felt nice, keeping a memento of the only other person he'd truly ever trusted with Sam close to him.

He pulled back onto the Interstate, the morning sun now reflecting in his rear-view mirror as he continued west. He passed semi-trucks, minivans, motorcycles. He slouched in his seat, finding his groove, setting his speed for a long-haul. Turning on the radio, he pressed the dial buttons, searching for something worth listening to.

His lips tipped up as the last few chords of Zeppelin's _Kashmir _filtered through the static prompted by distance. He was about to re-tune the dial when the DJ came on, talking about a rock block and cued up _Ramble On_. Despite himself, Dean's face relaxed into a smile, his fingers tapping out the familiar rhythm on his steering wheel.

_Thanks, Dad_.

Illinois became Missouri and Missouri seemed to evaporate beneath his wheels, the distance disappearing as Dean lost himself in the effort of not thinking. Memories blended with the music, images so thick before his eyes he had to blink them away. The Interstate was typically heavy with truckers, but as he focused on all possible scenarios that might greet him when he reached Stull, Dean barely noticed. He slipped through Kansas City, the sun cresting and turning the sky around him to a cool metallic haze.

Unbidden, images of that city at a different time, a time that would never be if he was successful today, surged to the forefront of his memory. He glanced at the brick buildings and clover-leaf highways and saw instead the burned-out husks, twisted metal, and crumbling concrete of the city in a future horror – imagination super-imposed over reality.

But it wasn't his imagination, he knew. It had been real. And it had been horrible. Sam had been gone, his eyes almost serenely evil. Dean had watched himself be killed by his brother – a different Dean, a Dean that had been damaged and scored like the bullet-riddled buildings he'd found refuge within – with as much concern as one might show an ant.

Dean felt bile burn his throat and swallowed hard. He wouldn't let that happen. If he couldn't save Sam, he was going to have to find a way to let Sam go, condemning both souls to Hell. He would have to choose humanity over his brother, fulfilling his father's final, bleak order: _save him, or kill him_.

Sweat beaded across his upper lip, the back of his neck becoming clammy at the thought.

As he reached the first Lawrence exit, he felt his pulse quicken, beating an anxious tattoo against the base of his throat. He turned off the radio, exhaling slowly, his lips pushed out around the exodus of air. He remembered where Stull was; he hadn't been there before, but John had written about it in his journal, the proximity of the cemetery to their hometown, the rumors of a portal to Hell.

Dean rarely forgot a fact, his mind a complicated maze of lore, rites, and weapons. With the amount of times he'd read over his father's journal, it wasn't hard to pinpoint the location based on John's description. He took the third exit, following the signs toward Lawrence, his palms sweaty as he gripped the steering wheel tighter.

_You can do this…. Youcandothisyoucandothisyoucandothis…._

"Nothin' to it," he quietly coached himself. "Just goin' to have a talk with Sammy."

Sammy…who was being held captive in his own body by the actual friggin' _Devil_. Dean felt a sharp, unexpected stab in his chest. This was all just so…_wrong_. He hadn't carried his brother from their burning house, pulled him out of the fire that took his girlfriend, watched him, protected him, gone to Hell for him, just to lose him now.

"This isn't how it ends," he whispered.

The sun hung heavy and low in the late afternoon sky; the world around him seemed to gray out with the intensity of the light. Clouds were gathered on the horizon, but they seemed to be held at bay, the ceaseless Kansas wind taking five. There was an unnatural pressure against his ears, like a storm was coming. The world felt as if it were holding its breath in anticipation.

"This isn't how it ends," he repeated, louder, stronger, with purpose. "We're gonna be okay, Sammy. You just hang on, little brother."

He glanced up at the amulet swinging from the rear view mirror. _Believe_, Castiel had said. Dean didn't have much left to believe in. Everything and everyone he'd ever believed in had either died, left him, or turned their backs at one time or another.

Believing never really got him very far.

And yet…he'd survived Hell. He and Sam had defeated the Four Horsemen. They'd bested demons and angels alike, making it further in their resistance than anyone in Heaven or Hell believed they would.

"Son of a bitch," he mumbled, grabbing the amulet from the mirror, the loose knot in the leather tie giving way easily.

Gripping the metal figure tightly in his right hand, he steered with his knee as he wrapped the leather string around his palm, securing it to his thumb. He couldn't wear it; he didn't feel right. But he'd have it near. Hopefully he'd know what to do with it when the time came.

The turn off for Stull came up quickly; Dean banked to the right, slowing as the big Chevy rumbled down the narrow streets, past small houses and old brick buildings. The cemetery was on the west end of town, and by the reports he'd read, the church had long ago been burned out and torn down by vagrants and taggers and those who liked to think of themselves as occultists.

But the graves were still there.

Just before he reached the edge of the lot with the cemetery entrance, he stopped. Rolling his window down, he pulled in a lungful of air as if it were the last time he'd ever be able to do so. A strange calm flowed over him with that breath.

This was a fight. Like so many fights he'd faced and survived before.

"You got this," he told himself, plucking a cassette from his collection and shoving it into the Impala's player without looking.

As Def Leppard's _Rock of Ages_ boomed out through his speakers, Dean brought his chin up and settled his shoulders, pulling forward through the cemetery entrance. He could see Sam; his brother's back was to him and he wasn't standing quite right, but it was Sam. As Sam turned at the sound of his approach, Dean leaned slightly out through his opened window and saw Adam – wearing a mask-like expression of determination – standing opposite.

"Howdy, boys," Dean greeted casually, raising his voice to be heard over the music. "Sorry. Am I interrupting something?"

Adam glared at him and Dean turned off the car, quieting the music. As he got out of the Impala and shut the door behind him, he couldn't quell the dizzying feeling of stepping off a high-dive. He kept his eyes on Sam, ignoring the way Lucifer held his brother's body too stiffly, his chest thrust out, his face a snarl of contempt.

Swallowing hard, Dean moved to stand in front of the Impala, feeling the heat of the over-used engine hit the back of his legs.

"Hey," he said to Sam, his hands in his pockets as if this were any other day, any other conversation. "We need to talk."

Lucifer looked out through Sam's eyes with derision. "Dean. Even for you, this is a whole new mountain of stupid."

"I'm not talking to you," Dean replied calmly. "I'm talking to Sam."

Adam spoke up. "You're no longer the vessel, Dean. You've got no right to be here."

Glancing to the side, Dean spared a thought for his half-brother. The kid never had a chance, never knew what his Winchester heritage would bring. Dean felt partially to blame for his even being here; the only reason Zachariah had gone to Plan B was because Dean refused to say 'yes.'

Eyes softening with sympathy, Dean addressed the brother he'd never really known. "Adam, if you're in there somewhere, I am so sorry."

Adam's lips twisted. "Adam isn't home right now," Michael said snidely, disgust sitting at home on Adam's face.

It helped assuage Dean's guilt a bit. Adam was gone. "Well, then you're next on my list, Buttercup. But right now," he pointed to Sam, "I need five minutes with him."

Adam snarled, stepping forward. "You little maggot. You are no longer part of this story!"

"Hey! Ass-butt!"

Dean turned, shocked, upon hearing Castiel's voice. He knew his friend had promised to help, but he honestly never expected to hear his voice again. He stared at the angel uncomprehendingly, trying to figure out what Castiel was planning to do with the Molotov cocktail he brought with him. Next to Cas, Bobby stood with the Colt held loosely in his grip. Dean felt his stomach drop at seeing his friend and mentor there with him among the angels. His heart raced as thoughts and possibilities of what could happen to Bobby instantly bombarded him.

But Bobby wasn't looking at him. He was staring at Sam.

Before any of the Winchesters could move, Castiel flung the flaming bottle he'd been holding directly at Adam. The angel screamed in rage and pain as the holy fire turned him to ash.

Shaken, mind spinning at what had just transpired, Dean looked back at Castiel. "'Ass-butt?'"

Castiel didn't even bother to shrug. "He'll be back," he warned. "And upset. But you've got your five minutes."

Sam turned to face the newcomers, his lips pulled back in a snarl of disbelief. "Castiel. Did you just Molotov my brother with holy fire?"

At that, as flash of fear crossed Castiel's face. "Uh…no."

Sam stepped forward, his very movement so unlike _Sam_ that Dean was having trouble not thinking of him as _Lucifer_. "No one dicks with Michael but me."

Lucifer snapped Sam's fingers and Dean looked on in shock as Castiel exploded in a rain of blood and chunks of flesh. For a moment, Dean couldn't breathe. His body had started to tremble from the inside out as his mind screamed out denial.

_Castiel wasn't dead. He _couldn't_ be dead. He simply was without his vessel. That was all. That _had to be_ all._

"Sammy," Dean said in a shaking voice, trying to draw Lucifer's attention back to him. "Can you hear me?"

As if infinitely weary of the pointless chatter, Sam turned back to Dean. "You know…," he moved forward, slowly closing the gap between them. "I tried to be nice. For Sammy's sake. But you," he grabbed the front of Dean's jacket, "are such a pain in my ass."

With appalling ease, Sam lifted Dean from his feet and hurled him onto the windshield of the Impala. Dean never heard the glass beneath him shatter; the air was driven from his lungs as he felt his side cave with the impact, his back stabbing pain through his body in electric waves. Before he could reclaim his breath, he heard a shot ring out.

Sam's body flinched, Lucifer's expression shifting from irritation to rage as he turned away from Dean. Eyes darting frantically, Dean saw Bobby pull the trigger once more, blood blossoming on Sam's shoulder. The Colt – the weapon that could kill _anything_ – made no impact whatsoever on Lucifer. Without hesitation, Lucifer lifted Sam's hand, twisted it, and Bobby's neck snapped, his body falling to the earth in a lifeless heap.

"_NO_!"

The scream was torn from Dean's heart. He couldn't breathe; Bobby was gone. No vessel, no returning, just _gone_.

He couldn't process this. He had to focus. He had to reach Sam.

_Oh, God, __**Bobby**_.

"Yes," Lucifer growled, grabbing Dean's legs and pulling him from the hood of the Impala.

Dean was now completely alone and utterly defenseless. Lucifer plowed Sam's fist across Dean's jaw. Sam had hit him before, many times. He'd beaten him senseless once, juiced up on demon blood. But this wasn't _Sam_ hitting him. This was Lucifer. And Dean knew from the first punch he wasn't going to survive this encounter.

It felt as if he'd been hit by a freight train. The force behind the blow rattled his teeth, sent his senses spinning, and threw him back against the Impala, blood pooling in his mouth. Dean spit it out, rotating and trying to find his brother's eyes.

"Sammy?" he gasped. "Are you in there?"

Lucifer almost smiled, a twisted version of Sam's expression. "Oh, he's in here, all right." His fist crashed across Dean's cheekbone, turning his vision white. "And he's gonna feel the snap of your bones."

He slammed his fist against Dean's mouth. Dean's legs lost their strength and he crumbled to the ground. Lucifer didn't allow him to stay down; he was too pissed off at Dean for daring to interfere, for daring to question the grand plan, for denying him his moment of battle satisfaction.

"Every. Single. One." Hauling Dean to his feet, Lucifer gripped him by the edges of his jacket and breathed a promise against Dean's damaged features. "We're gonna take our time."

And Lucifer kept that promise, his fist pounding against Dean's face over and over until all Dean knew was pain, until he couldn't breathe through the blood caught in his throat, until his world was spinning, his reality nothing but a white-hot void. He forgot why he was here; he only knew that he was dying.

He felt the bones in his cheek crack, felt his jaw break, felt his nose shatter. His mouth was shredded, his left eye filling with blood. Thought had become no more than sensation, reason was gone, hope was a memory. He wasn't sure how he was on his feet except for the fact that Sam's hand was fisted tightly in his jacket.

_Sam…._

Each punch brought a flash of memory to Dean's battered brain.

Sam at five, climbing into his big brother's bed after a nightmare; Sam at eight, lost in a new school, reaching for Dean's hand and reassurance; Sam at ten handing Dean a Christmas gift meant for their Dad, but given to the one person who never left him; Sam at thirteen lighting fireworks against the night sky and grinning up at his big brother; Sam at eighteen boarding a bus to California and keeping Dean in his line of sight as long as possible; Sam at twenty-two reaching out for his brother when a vision tore through him; Sam at twenty-five staring with a tear-stained visage as he fought to not have to say good-bye.

A steady rhythm beat through Dean's soul: _Sam…Sam…Sam…Sam…._

Barely able to see, Dean reached up with his right hand and clung weakly to Sam's jacket, the amulet impossibly heavy in his grasp.

"Sam," he choked out through swollen lips, his own blood running down his throat as he fought for breath. "It's okay…it's okay. I'm here."

Lucifer hit him again. And again. But Sam needed to know. He needed to know that his big brother was there. That he wasn't alone; he was _never_ alone. Dean had never been further than a phone call from his brother's side Sam's entire life.

"I'm here. I'm not gonna leave you." The fist crashed again. "I'm not gonna leave you."

Lucifer reared Sam's hand back for what Dean knew would be a final blow. His entire being radiated pain. He was no longer able to stand, held upright only to be used as a punching bag. He was barely able to grip Sam's jacket. But he would hold on until Lucifer killed him; he wasn't going to let Sam die alone here.

And then, Lucifer paused, light glinting across Sam's hazel eyes. He loosened his grip and Dean collapsed to the ground, slumped against the side of the Impala, his breath rattling through his broken mouth, tripping across his damaged lungs. He could barely lift his head, his left eye swollen shut, his right blurring with pain, but he kept his face toward Sam, kept his presence focused on Sam.

Sam seemed frozen, his face a struggle of emotion, as he stared at the broken windshield of the Impala. He looked at once enraged and torn, as if fighting an epic war on an invisible battlefield. And as Dean watched, his brother returned, Sam's soul flooding into his face and posture so suddenly it was electrifying.

Sam's eyes found Dean's and Dean wanted to cry. He was _back_. They had done it.

"It's okay, Dean," Sam gasped, his fist unclenching, his chin trembling. "It's gonna be okay. I've got him."

"No!" The sudden outcry of Adam's voice stabbed through Dean's pain-seared senses. Castiel said he'd be back, but somehow Dean hadn't believed him.

_Believe…._

Sam dug into his jean's pocket and pulled out the Horsemen's rings, connected by their odd, magnetic power. He tossed them to the ground and Dean heard him mutter something in Latin. Dimly, Dean remembered what he had to do.

_You must have the strength to say a phrase in Enochian…._

The wind that had been silent and still suddenly returned with a vengeance, whipping through the small cemetery and pulling at Sam's hair and clothes as the ground behind him, directly beneath the rings, began to crumble and fall into itself.

"No…." Dean tried to speak, but could barely move his swollen lips.

Adam advanced and Dean began to push himself to his feet, unable to get further than his knees. His body was beaten, his heart trembling, agony wrapped around him like a blanket.

"I have to fight my brother, Sam! Here and now!" Adam was shouting over the wind, growing closer to Sam while also trying to avoid the ground gaping open behind him. "It's not going to end this way! Step away!"

"You're gonna have to make me!" Sam screamed back, then looked one last time at Dean.

And in that moment, in the space of a heartbeat, Dean saw what Sam had seen. What had given his brother the strength to wrestle control back from Lucifer. He saw their brotherhood, their past, their present, the future they were denied. He saw the love that bound them like a slipstream of power lighting the air between them and around them like a beacon.

Gripping the side of the Impala, Dean struggled to his feet, not bothering to look at Adam, staring only at Sam, feeling a surge of strength inside of him the likes of which he'd never known.

_You're my brother, and I'd die for you…._

_Remember what Dad taught you, remember what I taught you…._

_Long as I'm around, nothing bad's gonna happen to you…._

_It's my job, right? Watch after my pain-in-the-ass little brother…._

Dean took a breath, and everything happened at once.

Adam stepped forward, Sam stepped back, and Dean reached out, the amulet pocketed in the palm of his hand. As if on instinct, perhaps without thinking, Sam reached back, his left hand gripping Dean's right, and Dean knew – he _knew_ in that moment – that he was not going to let his brother fall back into that Pit.

The memory of the pain he'd felt in Hell, of every soul he'd tortured when they let him off the rack, of every guilty breath he'd taken after Castiel hauled him out, turned to molten steel inside of him. The air around him lit up, his whole body burning with the heat of it. He cried out from the intensity and saw the shock and fear on Sam's face.

"Lonsa el balt cnila," Dean choked out, his voice barely audible through his shattered mouth.

Sam's eyes widened and Dean felt the weight of his brother's body tugging on his hand, but he didn't let go. The amulet burned in their joined grip and Adam roared in rage and denial. Dimly, Dean was aware of Adam lunging forward, arms reaching for Sam, and of the look of anguish on Sam's face. The heat around them grew until it stole what remained of Dean's breath, sapping his swiftly fading strength and turning the light from blinding to non-existent.

As he sank to the earth, he felt a strange, vacuum-like tug of air around him, heard an aborted cry of protest, and then nothing. Darkness claimed him, cloaking him in victory, his last conscious thought that he could still feel Sam's hand in his own.

* * *

**a/n**: Thanks for reading! If you take time to review, I appreciate the gift. It's my practice to reply to each review, but time is limited these days. I'll be balancing writing Part 2 of this story with writing the weekly episode Rambles and replying to comments/reviews, so it may take me a bit to get to yours, but know that I read them all and they encourage me to keep going.


	3. Part One: Chapter 2

**Title: **From Yesterday  
**Fandom:** Supernatural  
**Author**: gaelicspirit  
**Characters:** Dean, Sam, and OCs  
**Disclaimer/Summary:** See Prologue

**Author's Note: **Thank you all so much for reading and reviewing!I promise I will eventually reply to each of you, but I hope you'll take this THANK YOU in the meantime. Also, apologies for the lateness; I'm intending on posting a new chapter every Friday but this week was so insane that I actually ~forgot~ it was Friday until the evening and was not able to post. Won't happen again. I hope. :)

From this point forward, we're getting into the weeds of this alternate reality. As the boys deal with the ramifications for what went down at Stull the action may ebb and flow a bit, but I felt it was necessary to set up their new reality in Part 1…so I can bring it all crashing down around them in Part 2. This is a bit of a Sam-centric chapter, but Dean is never far from him.

Hope you continue to enjoy!

* * *

His face was wet.

Sam opened his eyes, trying to determine the reason for the moisture, staring up at a twilight sky. For brief, precious moments, his mind was completely blank; his memory a confused tangle of light and dark, blurred images and unfamiliar voices. Frowning, he started to reach up and touch his own cheek when pain blossomed throughout his body.

"Ah!" he gasped, trying desperately to pinpoint the source.

It was everywhere; it was in his thoughts, in each shuddering breath. He closed his eyes, feeling his body scream. Voices, loud, demanding, angry – _his _voice, words that cut as sure as a blade. Forcing himself to slow his breaths until he could count them, until the slam of his heart no longer threatened to choke him to death, he cautiously opened his eyes.

After two or three breaths, he was able to pinpoint the worst of his pain. It seemed to be centered on his right shoulder and left hand, with a strange, constant sting across his back. He huffed out a breath, trying to capture the ache radiating across every exhale and rolled to his left side with thought to sit up…until he saw the body. Sam lifted his head from the ground, clarity coming swiftly to his blurred vision.

_Bobby_.

Not ten feet from him, Bobby lay on the ground, next to an impressive pool of blood, his lips blue, his head at an unnatural angle. Sam felt his breath stutter once more in his chest, trying desperately to remember how this could have happened. He managed to leverage himself up to his elbow, unable at first to tear his eyes from Bobby's body.

It didn't make sense; the last time he saw Bobby—

"Oh, God," Sam breathed, memories suddenly filtering back to him like a broken movie reel.

The hotel room. _Lucifer_.

He'd said _yes_. He'd said yes and he'd felt the angel take over, shoving him back and away, pushing him deep inside his own mind, unable to control his own body, his own actions, until…. He looked over his shoulder quickly, almost expecting to see a red-faced demon with pointed teeth and horns. Instead, he saw something even more horrific: Dean.

Face broken and bloody, body utterly still.

"Dean?" Sam called softly, his voice sounding strange and strangled in his ears.

He started to push himself upright, but the moment he put pressure on his left hand, he jerked it back in surprise and pain. Looking down at his palm he saw a red, raw, seeping burn the size of a half-dollar. His body started to shake, shock setting in, chilling him even as heat radiated from his wounds. He closed his eyes, gripping his wrist as his hand throbbed.

_Because we're two halves made whole…._

Sam gasped, the voice erupting unbidden, echoing inside his head as if his brain were an amphitheater. He reached up, grabbing at his temple, remembering. Sickened. He could _feel_ him…feel Lucifer. Except it wasn't like before.

The fallen angel was no longer _here_…but the memory of seeing the Devil in his own reflection, of hearing that voice, feeling the wicked, repulsive…oddly _seductive_ desire and satisfaction rippling through him was still very real.

_All those times you ran away, you weren't running from them. _

"No…no, stop it…."

_You were running towards me._

"Shut up, shut up, _shut __**up**_!"

_What do you say you and I blow off a little steam…?_

"_**STOP**_!" Sam roared, helplessly curling inward, trying to shut the voice out, quiet the riot inside of his head, sending his heart into a flutter of confused panic. How was he still alive? _Why_ was he still alive?

The wound on his hand stung as he pressed it against his sweat-soaked head. Blood from the oozing burn saturated the edge of his sleeve and he saw that it had pooled on the grass beneath him, joined, he now realized, by blood from a wound on his right shoulder.

Not sure what was wrong with his back, but feeling the pull all the same, Sam tightened his stomach muscles to ease himself forward. Turning his right hand over, he saw the torn skin and swollen knuckles he'd normally associate with being in a brawl. Carefully curling his fingers against his palm, he shot a look toward Dean's still form.

_Oh, he's here…and he's going to feel the snap of your bones…._

The voice – _his_ voice – continued to echo in Sam's memory. He flinched violently as he remembered slamming his fist against Dean's face again and again. He cried out, his body rocking involuntarily with the memory, the flush from before spiking up as his head swam.

Suddenly, Sam twisted at the waist and was sick. His stomach heaved as if trying to expel the memory, the sensation of having the Devil beneath his skin. When his heaving stopped and he was able to catch his breath, Sam rolled to his knees, crawling in a slow, awkward shuffle toward his brother.

"Dean?" He almost choked on the word. He was shaking all over, covered with a chilled sweat, his vision wavering as he pinned his eyes to Dean's broken form.

Nothing. No movement.

Sam reached out his right hand, his left curled protectively against his side, and gently touched Dean's wounded face. Something jolted through him, weak and wavering. He could see himself through Dean's eyes – only it was clear that it wasn't truly _him_ he was seeing. It was Lucifer.

_I'm here…I'm not gonna leave you._

"Oh, God, Dean." Sam cried, tears now flowing freely.

He remembered the sound of his fist slamming against Dean's face. He remembered the give of Dean's bones. He remembered the smell of his brother's blood.

And he remembered Dean's voice, unfailing, unwavering. _I'm not gonna leave you._

He let his fingers slip from Dean's blood-covered face and the images seemed to fall away. His brother's breath rattled in the quiet of the night and a sob tore through Sam. Bending forward, he rested his forehead on Dean's shoulder, tears falling against Dean's jacket and soaking in. It occurred to him then that was what he'd awoken to: tears on his face.

A memory clung: a sensation of ripping – like paper from a book – and a scream of outrage and fear echoed oddly in the back of his mind, making his head ache with the faintness of it. He blinked the memory away, pressing his face against Dean's arm, feeling the heat there.

His hand throbbed; sniffing, he rolled his head to the side, still leaning on Dean's shoulder, and looked once more at the wound. He couldn't remember how it had happened. He recalled the sensation of swimming to the surface, of finally breathing once more, and then seeing his brother's battered face. He remembered heat and light and Dean's grip—

Sam brought his head up and clumsily reached for Dean's hands. His left was turned, twisted behind him. His right lay stretched out in front of him revealing a charred, bloody wound, roughly the same size as Sam's, but so deep Sam could see bone. Blood pooled in the grass around the appendage and coated Dean's fingers and wrist.

Sam felt his breath catch.

They were in trouble. He couldn't remember how he'd gotten here – something told him he really didn't want to – but they had the Impala; he needed to get them to a hospital. Reaching for the Chevy, Sam started to pull himself to his feet. He was surprised when his legs wouldn't cooperate.

The world spun slowly around him as he got as far as his knees, leaning against the silver grill of the Impala. Swallowing another surge of bile, Sam looked down at his shoulder, the dull pain there having spiked with his efforts to rise. Blood soaked his shirt and jacket; he pulled the material aside and saw to his surprise that he'd been shot. A small, neat hole puckered the skin just beneath his collar bone. Now that he was aware of it, he realized he could feel blood soaking his back, the bullet having apparently gone through him.

He closed his eyes, suddenly dizzy. Twice. He could remember a gun being fired _twice_. He couldn't feel another patch of blood on his front; it was impossible to tell how bad his back was. The only thing he knew was that he was conscious now and Dean wasn't. If there was any hope of getting out of there, he was going to have to call for help.

Sinking down to lean against the Impala's wheel, his side against Dean's folded legs, he patted the pockets of his coat, searching for his cell phone. He found nothing. Not in his jeans either. He swallowed, feeling his body begin to shake once more, a chill settling in that scared him. He had no idea how much blood he'd lost, but he could _not_ pass out now. He did, and they were both dead and none of this would matter.

"_It's not going to end this way!"_

The voice was so real, so _present_ that Sam looked over his shoulder, feeling the ripping sensation once more, crying out as the phantom pain seemed to destroy the muscles in his back and chest, catching his head in a vise. He saw something lying on a patch of yellowing grass, unsure exactly what it was, but hazarding a guess: the Horseman's Rings. As he stared at the Earth, a memory of hands pulling him back, dragging him away from Dean, rocked him and sent his body tumbling forward, across his brother's hip.

He clung to Dean, drowning in a sea of memory as his traumatized mind caught up with his consciousness and he saw, felt, _heard_ the last few moments of his life. Gasping, he remembered how Dean had held on, the light emanating from his brother – his eyes illuminating until they were unrecognizable silver orbs, beams streaming from his mouth, ears, skin – both terrifying and reassuring, their hands burning as if fusing together. Sam remembered Adam lunging for him, desperate fingers clawing at him, working to pull him away, fighting gravity as the Earth opened up beneath them.

Sam gagged as the pain flashed, hot and fierce, through him once more, the memory of Adam—Michael—latching onto _someone_ – just not _Sam_. He couldn't take Sam because Dean anchored him, body and soul, with what seemed to be only his grip and a light so intense it blinded them. Michael pulled Lucifer from Sam's body, ripped from his invasion of Sam's mind, Sam's soul, removed from his vessel with such force Sam felt his body being torn.

He trembled as he remembered the screams – his, Michael's, Lucifer's – of pain and denial that split the final hold, shredding the Earth around them and sending Sam forward, crashing into Dean and driving him to the ground. He felt the air around him burn hot and bright once more, a vacuum of _will_ tugging him back, away, but unable to hold on, unable to pull him away from his brother.

And then silence. The Earth closed. The Archangels were gone.

No epic battle. No tumble into Lucifer's Cage. No sacrifice.

Sam was sobbing.

It seemed he'd been crying for years, for a lifetime. He was shaking against his brother's still form, exhaustion from the memories pressing him down, weighing him with grief and gratitude. His body was spent, his energy depleted. He couldn't remember ever being so weary. He wanted so badly to simply close his eyes, to sleep, to let gravity win.

_No…._

He pressed his right hand to the Earth, forcing himself sluggishly upright.

"No," he said aloud, trying to focus his mind. He was their only hope. "You give in now, you both die," he told himself, keeping himself talking, keeping himself present.

No phone on him. He knew there were several in the Impala, but he lacked the strength to drag his body to the door. He began to pat down Dean's pockets, gently turning his brother to reach his right side. The dying light of day illuminated the shattered visage before him and Sam felt his breath catch in his throat.

"Dean," Sam rasped. "I'm sorry. I'm _so_ sorry."

Dean made a strangled sound – somewhere between a cough and a moan – and seemed to flinch a bit. Sam stared for a moment before he realized that his brother was choking. Easing Dean to his side once more, he crawled carefully to sit at Dean's head, pulling his brother up into his lap as best he could, propping him up against his chest and relieving some of the pressure. Blood still ran freely from the numerous cuts on his swollen face. Sam finished patting Dean's pockets and found to his immense relief a phone in Dean's jacket.

Flipping it open, he registered briefly that it wasn't Dean's phone. The numbers wavered and blurred before his eyes. Holding the phone in his right hand, Sam struggled to dial 911 with his wounded left hand. Three little numbers. It was a monumental effort.

When the dispatcher answered, he was momentarily at a loss for words. The dispatcher spoke again.

"_Hello? Is someone there?"_

"Y-yes," Sam choked out. "I-we need…help. We need help."

It was getting hard to think, to process. He couldn't even remember where they were for a moment.

"_Sir? Can you tell me the nature of your emergency?"_

Without warning, Dean began to shake against him – not a mere tremble, but a frighteningly violent seizure that had Sam clutching him close in instinctive reaction.

"My-my brother is…," he had to stop, to hold onto Dean, to try to speak over his fear. "He's beaten up real bad," he managed, his voice thick with tears and fright. "I've been shot."

"_Sir, where are you?" _The woman's voice had shifted, turning serious and specific.

Dean went limp and Sam gasped, almost more afraid of his brother's stillness than he had been of the shaking. He froze in terror for the half-second it took to hear Dean's rough breath against silence once more.

There. Still there. Dean was still there. _I'm not gonna leave you._

"I-I don't…I can't…."

"_It's going to be okay – we're sending help. Can you look around? Can you tell me what you see?"_

Sam obeyed, blurred vision filtering in the shadowed landscape, gravestones, and seemingly abandoned town. It had to be abandoned, right? How was it that no one had come to the sound of gunfire? To the sound of screaming?

"Stull," he blurted, the memory finally surfacing. "We're at Stull. The cemetery. We were…," he paused. How was he going to explain all of this? "Attacked. Please…please hurry. My brother… he was shaking, and—" His voice caught in a sob.

"_Officers and paramedics are on their way,"_ the dispatcher reassured him. _"Are your attackers still nearby?"_

"They were gone when I woke up," he answered honestly.

"_Is your brother breathing?"_

"It's really shallow," Sam told her.

"_Okay, it's going to be okay. Where were you shot?"_

"My…my shoulder."

"_Okay, stay still. Try to put some pressure on the wound."_

"I'm holding my brother."

"_Good, you're doing good. What's your name?"_

"Sam."

"_You're doing good, Sam. You should be hearing the sirens soon. Stay with me until you hear them, okay?"_

"Okay."

"_How is your brother, Sam?"_

"He's…," Sam looked down at Dean's battered face. "He's broken," he whispered, his voice cracking.

"_Sam? Did you say he was broken?"_

"His face…it's covered in blood…and he's barely breathing…and his hand…." Sam couldn't keep talking. He couldn't keep thinking. He wanted so badly to lie down. "I'm tired."

"_No, Sam. No, now you stay on with me, okay? The paramedics are on their way. Why are you boys at Stull?"_

Sam closed his eyes, slumping until his body curled over Dean's head and shoulders. "Had to save the world."

"_Sam? Are you on any drugs?"_

"No," Sam sighed.

"_It will be important for the paramedics to know—"_

"No drugs," Sam repeated. "Jus' tired."

"_C'mon, Sam, you stay awake, okay? You hear the sirens yet?"_

Sam lifted his head slightly. He could hear them, from far, far away, as if they were coming at him from inside the Earth. "Yeah. Kinda."

"_Okay, I want you to stay with me until you see the lights. You watch for the lights, okay, Sam?"_

"Yeah, okay," Sam said, straightening a bit more, glad to have a job to do.

"_They're going to take care of you, help your brother."_

"Who's going to take care of Bobby?" Sam asked, his sluggish brain focused only on finding the lights.

"_Is Bobby your brother?"_

"No." Oh, God, Bobby. Had _he_ killed Bobby? He felt his stomach rebel and sweat broke out on his upper lip. "He's dead."

"_Is he…is Bobby there with you?"_

"Yeah," Sam sighed again. The world seemed to be slipping further away, his pain-wracked body slowly going numb in response to its retreat. "They killed him."

He heard the dispatcher curse and it make him blink. _"The officers will take care of Bobby, Sam."_

In some corner of his brain, Sam registered that he probably had just brought a whole new level of horror to the town of Lawrence, Kansas, with one call for help. But he didn't really care. He could see the lights now and the lights meant that someone was coming. That Dean was going to have help. And that the awful, bone-crushing ache that held him in a suffocate grip would finally ease.

"Lights 'r here," he said.

Before the dispatcher could say anything else, Sam closed the phone, stuffing it into his jacket. He could see the vehicles coming closer, their red and blue lights blinding him as they cut through the thickening night. Unable to stay upright any longer, Sam slumped over, falling across Dean at a somewhat protective angle, shielding the worst of his brother's wounds from the possessive dark as help rushed toward them.

www

"He ain't breathin', Joe."

"Bag 'im."

"Jesus, kid, what the fu—"

"BPs all over the goddamn place."

"He's crashing."

The voices were at Sam's side, but distant. He felt movement, motion. He opened his eyes slowly and saw two men, both in blue uniforms, bent over someone lying on a stretcher next to him. One had his back to Sam, the other was in profile. It took Sam several moments to realize that the person on the stretcher was Dean.

"Charging…charging…CLEAR!"

Sam gaped, jerking in sympathy as Dean's body arched off the stretcher. He saw the two paramedics pause, looking at a small box with a screen on the front, strapped to the wall of the ambulance.

"We got him! We got him back."

"Easy, kid, take it easy, just breathe."

"No good, Joe, he's choking."

He'd been choking back at Stull, Sam remembered. Choking on blood.

"Need to intubate. Charlie, gimme a hand."

"Shit, this is gonna suck balls. This guy's thrashed, Joe."

Sam could hear Dean gagging, see his hands shake in reaction to the pain slamming through his body. He wanted to reach out, to comfort him, but he couldn't move: he was strapped down to the stretcher, his shoulder and torso wrapped tight.

"We're in. He's getting air."

Sam blinked, suddenly dizzy, the voices blending together, bouncing off each other like Newton's Cradle. He closed his eyes, trying to focus, needing to stay present for Dean. Needing to know Dean was okay. Opening his eyes once more was proving to be too difficult.

"God dammit, BPs bottoming out again!"

"Pushing 20 cc's of atropine."

"Calm down, kid. Take it easy; we gotcha. You're safe."

"Charlie, grab his hand."

"What's he reaching for?"

"Just hang onto him."

"No dice, Joe. Gotta get him to calm the fuck down."

Sam knew what Dean was reaching for. His left hand throbbed with the memory of Dean gripping him tight, of Dean holding him here, _now_, not letting him go. Dean was reaching for _him_.

"Dean." His voice was weak, and way too far away, but he knew Dean heard him. The frantic beeping that had been filling the interior of the ambulance began to slow. "I'm here, Dean."

And then the beep turned into a high-pitched whine.

"Fuck, not again."

"Charlie, get the paddles—"

www

When he was eight years old, Sam had fallen from a slide in the playground around the corner from the apartment John had rented for the month and broken his wrist. Dean had picked him up and carried him four blocks to the hospital, walking him right into the emergency room and had basically ordered the nurses to take care of his brother.

Dean had only been twelve years old at the time, but not one person had argued with him.

Sam had sat next to his brother, gripping Dean's hand with his good one, and watched with wide eyes as the doctor numbed his arm before setting it. He'd cried only when he heard the bone pop into place; he hadn't been able to feel it, but he'd _known_ what had happened.

Dean had talked to him the entire time – keeping up a litany of possible plot lines for the _Justice League_ cartoons, or what his next move might be in Dungeons & Dragons. Anything to keep Sam grounded. He'd made a big deal about Sam's cast, excited to be the first one to sign it. And then proceeded to write a quote from his favorite movie at the time: _Peace through superior firepower._

As if that wasn't going to trigger questions from Sam's second-grade teacher.

They had to wait until the hospital staff could find John, then had some fancy footwork to do around the Social Services representative who came "just to see how things were," but the entire time, Sam hadn't once been afraid. He could remember knowing even as he fell from the slide everything would be okay because Dean was there.

When Sam opened his eyes to the muted light of the sterile-smelling room, monitors beeping to his right, IV itching on his left, and his body humming with a muted pain that screamed _morphine_, Dean wasn't there.

And nothing was okay.

For one heart-stopping moment, Sam couldn't remember where he was. His brain scrambled through the murky web of drugs and pain and missing time. He felt sweaty and hot and his stomach rolled in retaliation, warning him just in time for him to turn to the side and—

"Easy, I gotcha."

A blue accordion bag was placed over his mouth as he retched, keeping him from making a mess of himself and the equipment to his right. As he finished, strong arms helped him settle back and a cool, wet cloth was smoothed over his sweaty face.

"Sorry," he breathed. "'m sorry."

"Don't worry about it, hon." The voice was feminine, older, soft. He blinked, forcing his vision into focus and saw a stout-looking blonde women in her late forties standing next to him, a mobile computer cart by her side. "It happens all the time. Probably a reaction to the pain meds. Since you're awake, I'll get some orders to change 'em up. In the meantime, we'll get you some Reglan."

Sam stared at her for nearly thirty seconds as he brain fought to catch up with the torrent of words. "Wassat?" His tongue felt heavy, thick.

"For the nausea. Can you tell me what your pain level is?"

Sam looked around the room, slowly, taking it in. He was alone. A couch was across the small room, positioned under a window; the shades were drawn, but he could see light from the edges of the blinds. A small sink and a door to what he guessed was a bathroom was across from the foot of his bed. And he was surrounded by a multitude of monitors and IVs, more than he ever remembered having on him before.

"What…," he looked back at his nurse, who was busy checking IV bags and logging information into her computer. "What happened to me?"

At that, she paused, taking a moment to look at him. She had a tired, care-worn face and pale brown eyes. He knew he'd never seen her before, but the look she gave him made him feel as if he'd been told this information several times and just couldn't seem to get a grip on it.

"You were shot, hon. You were brought in here with another person and taken to surgery almost immediately."

"My...my brother," Sam replied, clearing his throat. It felt like someone had rubbed sandpaper inside of it. "Is he okay?"

The nurse handed him a Styrofoam cup full of ice and a plastic spoon. "Small amounts, now," she cautioned. "I'm sorry, I don't know anything about your brother. I've paged your doctor to let him know you're awake. You can ask him."

Sam let the ice melt in his mouth, relishing the blissful sensation of the cool liquid rolling down his throat. "Can I go see him?"

"Don't think so; not for awhile," the nurse replied, looking up at the monitor readings as his blood pressure cuff tightened and wrote down the results. "You've been through quite an ordeal this week."

Sam frowned. "This week?"

The nurse looked at him. "You and your brother were brought in here three days ago. You've been mostly out since your surgery."

Stunned, Sam leaned back blinking blindly at his lap. She asked once more about his level of pain and he told her a six, not really registering if that was true. He nodded vacantly as the nurse told him once more his doctor would be in to see him shortly. A strange humming-hiss sound emanated from the foot of his bed and he realized that pressurized leg wraps had been applied to help prevent blood clots as he'd been lying in bed. His brow furrowing as he became more aware of the bandages and wraps on his body, Sam lifted the blanket and saw, yes, that was indeed a catheter he was feeling.

His back ached a bit, but nothing more than he'd handled before. His right shoulder felt unnaturally heavy, a large bandage keeping his arm nearly immobile. His left hand was heavily wrapped from his fingers to his elbow.

Three days. Had he said anything while unconscious that would incriminate them? How had they dealt with the blood at the cemetery? Where was Bobby's body? What of the Impala? Had Dean locked it? Had they discovered the weapons cache in the trunk?

A knock on his door startled him. Before he could answer, a tall, black man wearing a white coat walked into his room, extending his left hand so that Sam could shake with his right. He clasped Sam's hand carefully, mindful of the IVs.

"I'm Frank Randall. It's good to see you awake."

Sam tried to smile. He muscles didn't want to fully cooperate. "It's good to be awake. I think."

"I hate to ask you this," Dr. Randall said, folding his arms across his chest. Sam decided he liked the doctor's voice – rich, deep, with a steady cadence that didn't make him feel as if he were being rushed to answer. "But…can you tell me your full name?"

Sam blinked at him, surprised.

"You didn't have any identification on you – nor did your companion – and the police were unable to find anything conclusive in the car they impounded. Well, except one cell phone with a call list of first names only. All we had to go on was the name you gave the 911 dispatcher."

Sam closed his eyes involuntarily. Dean had cleaned out the Impala of their fake IDs. That, or he'd stored them in the weapons cache – which, thankfully, it didn't appear the police had discovered. Yet.

"It's Sam," Sam replied. Then, after hesitating a moment, he elaborated. "Sam Winchester."

"Nice to finally meet you, Sam Winchester," Dr. Randall smiled at him, showing a row of startlingly-white teeth.

Sam wondered if twenty-five years was enough for a town to forget the mysterious death of a mechanic's wife. It was clear his name meant nothing to his doctor, so he was glad to have been honest this time.

"How is my brother, doc?" Sam asked.

Dr. Randall frowned. "Let's talk about you for a moment, Sam."

Sam felt a chill sweep over him at the avoidance of that question. "Is he…dead?" His entire body was tense.

His terror must have shown plainly on his face because Dr. Randall stepped forward quickly, placing a reassuring hand on Sam's left shoulder. "No, Sam. He's not dead. But he's not out of the woods."

Sam slumped back against his pillow.

"Which is why I want to talk about you, first. Because…," Dr. Randall clasped his arms at his wrists as if standing at attention. "Well, because if your brother pulls through, his recovery is going to require a bit of help."

Sam swallowed. "Okay," he said, bringing his chin up. "Lay it on me."

Without preamble, Dr. Randall began. "Do you remember what happened to you at Stull Cemetery?"

There had been several times in their past that he and Dean had been forced to think of a cover story on the fly, separated from each other. They had a series of standbys that got them out of just about every jam they'd managed to get themselves into thus far – and if their cover stories hadn't worked, they always had their lock-picking skills.

But Sam knew that this time there wasn't a story in their files that would cover the madness that brought them to Stull or explain the damage and pain that resulted from their presence. There was no way _saving the world_ or _stopping Armageddon_ was going to fly with the regulars. He'd honestly never expected to walk away from that confrontation; having to explain it never really entered his mind.

"It's okay, Sam," Dr. Randall said, his voice low and calm. "Temporary amnesia is expected in extreme cases such as this."

"I-I…," he stammered for a moment, then picked up on the save the doctor had unwittingly handed him. "I _am_ trying, but I can't…," he looked up at the doctor, his expression one of desperation and a little fear. "I don't remember."

"Tell me what you _do_ remember," the doctor offered.

_Oh, he's in here, all right…._

Sam sucked in a breath, pain lancing from his wounded shoulder to his wounded hand.

_And he's gonna feel the snap of your bones._

"I…uh, I remember…voices," he replied honestly. "Angry…threatening."

_Sam…it's okay. I'm here. I'm not gonna leave you._

"I remember my brother showing up –"

"So, you were there before him?"

Sam glanced up, a cold sweat breaking out across his skin as if he'd been caught standing in a vault with diamonds in his hand. "Yeah." He didn't elaborate. He simply waited.

Dr. Randall watched him carefully, then nodded. "Do you remember being shot?"

An impact, like a shove at his back. Turning. Bobby. Pain. The feel of brittle bones in an invisible grip. His soul screaming.

"Not exactly," Sam breathed.

"That's normal; it will probably come back to you." Dr. Randall tilted his head slightly. "What do you remember about what happened to your brother?"

Sam saw the man's eyes drop briefly to his scuffed, bruised knuckles, then return to the steady study of his face.

"I…um, I don't…," Sam swallowed, forcing himself to keep his hand still, to not look at the bruised, swollen knuckles. He could have sustained those injuries fighting off their 'attackers' for all the doctor knew. "I remember hearing him call out to me…, and then the next thing I knew I was awake and he was…he was…." He felt sick.

Dr. Randall grabbed a blue accordion bag and handed it to Sam, backing off from his questions at the look on Sam's face. "I'm sorry, Sam. I know this is difficult. The police are going to have more questions for you, once you're stronger. For now, let's concentrate on getting you better, okay?"

Sam nodded mutely.

"Did your nurse explain what happened to you?"

Sam shook his head, focusing on his breathing. He _really_ didn't want to throw up again.

"You have a deep laceration across the back of your left shoulder; best guess is that it came from a bullet graze. We were able to stitch that up; it'll be an impressive scar, but no lasting damage."

A shove. Turning. Bobby.

"You were shot in your right shoulder and the bullet passed through, mercifully missing your clavicle and any arteries, but making a mess of your muscles."

Pain. The feel of brittle bones in an invisible grip. His soul screaming.

"You also have a curious wound on your left hand. Third degree burns around an open wound that was created by a weapon no one here – including the police department – has yet been able to identify."

Sam looked down at his bandaged hand. Light. All around Dean. Pouring from his body. Their grip fused together by heat.

"Interestingly enough, your brother has the same wound, though his seems to have been much deeper, damaging both tendon and bone."

Sam simply breathed, listening.

"Your shoulder required surgery to repair some of the muscle damage, but I believe with some physical therapy – and a _lot_ of rest – you will regain full use of your arm. Your hand may be a different story. We repaired the tendon damage, but until it heals up a bit, we won't really know how much nerve damage was done."

Sam nodded, processing. Surgery meant they had opened him up. Surgery meant X-rays. How had they not seen the carvings on his bones? Why wasn't the doctor asking why he was covered in internal tattoos?

"The curious thing, however, were your blood counts and muscle fatigue."

Sam brought his head up. "My what?"

Dr. Randall frowned, turning to the portable laptop on the cart near the heart monitor next to Sam's bed. He clicked a few keys, scrolled, then, finding what he was looking for, glanced back at Sam.

"Based on the blood saturating your clothing, and your blood pressure when the paramedics arrived, you should not have been able to live through surgery. However, in the time between the paramedics reaching you at Stull and your arrival in my OR, your blood pressure leveled out – almost as if you replenished your own blood supply."

"But…," Sam's brows met across the bridge of his nose in confusion. "That happens, right? That's supposed to happen?"

"Not in a matter of hours. I've never seen regeneration like that before."

Sam looked away, stomach churning, suddenly remembering the gallons of demon blood in the back of the Impala. The slick, salty taste as he poured the blood down his throat, readying his body for Lucifer's invasion. The power he felt shimmying through him even before they'd reached the hotel room where Lucifer waited.

And the sick fear in Dean's eyes as he regarded him after the gallons were empty.

_Don't think about it. Blank your mind. It doesn't matter…it doesn't matter…it doesn't matter._

"Then there are your electrolyte and potassium counts. Your other organ levels are registering at high-functioning status, even with the trauma of being shot and having surgery. It's remarkable. But your electrolyte and potassium counts were quite abnormal – severely depleted. As if you'd run a marathon literally just before arriving at Stull."

A ripping sensation. Hands pulling at him, a hand anchoring him. Screams as a fallen angel was torn from his body.

"As you start to move around, you'll need to watch for severe muscle spasms, cramping, unexpected weakness in your limbs."

"For how long?"

Dr. Randall shook his head. "I wish I could tell you, Sam. The way your blood has regenerated, you may not notice any of those symptoms. Or you may notice them for a few days or a few weeks. It's really hard to say at this point."

Sam knew he couldn't press the issue. He was an anomaly, plain and simple. The last thing he wanted to do was trigger questions he couldn't answer. And the demon blood was still very much a part of him, whatever that meant for his future. He took a shaky breath.

"When can I see Dean?"

Dr. Randall looked down. "Sam, you just woke up after being in and out of coherent consciousness for three days. You need rest."

"I need to see my brother," Sam replied stubbornly, ignoring how his body all-but wept in response to the word 'rest.'

After studying him quietly for nearly a minute, Dr. Randall compromised. "If your vitals stay steady for the next four hours, I'll take you to see your brother for a few minutes before I end my shift."

Sam nodded. He could handle four hours. It was going to take him that long to process all the physical damage the doctor had just rattled off. He couldn't remember a time he'd been hurt this bad; a time when they hadn't been able to leave AMA and get back on the road. He was going to be lucky to walk across the room, let alone from the hospital.

What amazed him was how quickly he fell asleep after the doctor left his room. It seemed no time had passed when a nurse returned to his room to check his vitals and informed him that it had been three hours since they'd last been taken. He managed to coerce more ice chips out of her to soothe his raw throat and they changed his pain meds so that he didn't feel like he was going to turn his stomach inside out just by being conscious.

The last hour until Dr. Randall returned was the most excruciating length of time Sam had experienced in recent memory. He turned on his TV via the remote attached to his bed and scrolled through the limited stations, marveling at the news station's announcement of weather patterns regulating, attributing the unseasonable storms to El Nino or Global Warming.

Listening, Sam leaned back against his too-flat pillows, closing his eyes. Global Warming had nothing to do with it; they had just saved the world from the freakin' Apocalypse and no one would ever know.

"Sam?"

He brought his head up too quickly, blinking as the room spun a bit.

"Easy, sorry," Dr. Randall stepped in. "Was just checking your vitals."

"I'm good," Sam announced.

Dr. Randall frowned at him and checked the computer.

"Really, I'm good," Sam repeated. "I'm fine – barely any pain."

"Might have something to do with the pain meds."

"Still."

Sam watched as Dr. Randall nodded at the computer screen. "No fever, blood pressure has remained steady, you're off oxygen…."

"Can I see Dean?" His entire body felt as if it were straining forward, the need to see Dean so great it was like a gravitational pull out of his bed.

Dr. Randall faced him. "You're going via wheelchair."

"Fine," Sam lifted his right hand in surrender. Anything. Anything to just _look _at Dean for a moment. To reassure himself that his brother was still _there_, as he promised he'd be.

"Listen, Sam, you need to prepare yourself," Dr. Randall cautioned. "I am your brother's physician, too. I didn't operate on him, however, as I was in the OR with you. He had one of the best reconstructive surgeons in the metro area – flew him here to Lawrence, rather than sending your brother to Kansas City as there were too many other…contingencies to worry about."

"Wait…reconstructive?" Sam started to feel very cold.

Dr. Randall frowned at the monitor keeping track of his pulse rate.

"No, don't," Sam snapped. "I'm fine. You can't expect me to stay completely calm—"

"You're right," the doctor interrupted. "But you've been through a major trauma yourself, Sam. I won't take that lightly."

"I understand." _Just get me to Dean, dammit_.

A different nurse from earlier brought in a wheelchair and Sam was surprised that it actually took both her and the doctor to help him from the bed into the chair. His legs were jelly – utterly useless in his effort to stand tall. His left hand throbbed as he lowered it to help balance and his right shoulder pulsated painfully with any movement.

His back cramped as he sat on the edge of the bed and took his breath away when he settled into the chair. The nurse brought his IV pole and other paraphernalia, and the three of them moved out into the brightly-lit, activity-heavy hall, down three doors and paused.

"You're both in the Critical Care Unit now," Dr. Randall informed Sam. "Tomorrow, you'll be moved to a regular room to continue your recovery, which is one floor down. Dean…will need to stay here for a bit."

"I can't stay with him?" Sam asked.

"I'm sorry, son," the doctor said softly. "We just don't have the room."

The nurse opened the door and Dr. Randall wheeled Sam inside. It looked just like his room, with the exception of the privacy curtain pulled to block the bed from view of the door. He could hear a soft _hiss-click_ and the beep of the heart monitor. As the nurse pushed back the curtain, Sam felt his pulse pick up, his right hand going clammy and cold where it rested in his lap. The moment his eyes came to rest on Dean's profile, Sam let out an involuntary whimper.

Dean's face was swollen, almost unrecognizable. Bruises stood out in stark contrast to the white of his skin. From Sam's vantage point, he could see incisions and the ant-like feet of black stitches curving around Dean's left eye and down his temple, a splint on his nose, and stitches along his jaw and lip. His right hand was wrapped similarly to Sam's. He was shirtless, but bandages covered his torso. A narrow tube was inserted into his mouth, hooked up to a ventilator in an all-too-familiar visual.

"What…?" Sam asked helplessly. He remembered Dean's blood-covered face, the way he choked when Sam rolled him over.

_I'm here…I'm not gonna leave you_….

"Do you want the details?" Dr. Randall's voice was gentle, and that made Sam even more afraid.

"Yes." He made sure his voice was steady. He leaned forward, encouraging the doctor to push his chair toward Dean's bed.

"His left hip is fractured. It's a hairline fracture; we didn't operate as, comparatively speaking, it's the least of his concerns. Should he reach a point where he's up and walking again, we'll do a scan to make sure the bone set appropriately."

Sam stopped breathing for an entire minute the moment he heard the words _should he reach a point_. He started again when he felt Dr. Randall's eyes on him. He nodded, encouraging the doctor to continue.

"He has four broken ribs; they broke along his back. We had to put screws in two of them to ensure they set properly. Given time, they should heal completely; however he'll more than likely need some physical therapy to deal with pain management."

Sam pulled his lower lip against his teeth. Dean had had broken ribs before. He could take pain. He'd taken a rock-salt blast to the chest, been thrown against countless walls, been _literally_ to Hell and back. Sam wasn't worried about his ribs.

"His right hand bears the same wound as yours, but, as I said earlier, his wound is much deeper. There were tendons that were irreparable. He may regain use of his fingers, but he will never have full use of his hand again."

Sam's stomach turned to ice. Dean was right handed. He _shot_ with his right hand. He was going to be so pissed when he woke up.

"The head trauma is a different story," Dr. Randall continued, moving away from Sam's chair and around to the other side of Dean's bed, studying Dean's face as he spoke. "His jaw was shattered. Resetting the bone was a bit like putting a jig-saw puzzle back together. It's been wired shut in order to heal."

"How—" Sam stopped, clearing his throat as the ragged edge of emotion was exposed in that one syllable. "How long does that usually take?"

"Can take anywhere from six to eight weeks, depending." He glanced up at Sam. "If swift regeneration is a family trait, he may be in luck."

Sam didn't meet the doctor's eyes, waiting for him to continue. _It doesn't matter…it doesn't matter…it doesn't matter._

"His left cheekbone and eye socket were broken, as was his nose. Those reset easily and, again given time, should heal completely. He will have scarring around his eye and it's impossible to tell how much of his vision will be impaired. He sustained a serious concussion and as a result, his brain has swelled. We won't know the significance of this until he wakes up." Dr. Randall looked up at Sam. "If he wakes up."

The sense of déjà vu was agonizing. The last time he'd been in this situation, the last time he'd heard those words, his father had been alive. Bobby had been alive. He'd had someone to go to, someone to turn his anger on. He had _someone_.

_Oh, God, Dean…I'm so sorry. Please...please don't do this…don't leave me here alone._

"The beating he sustained was vicious and meant to kill," Dr. Randall continued. "It's a testament to your brother's strength that he's still alive."

Sam felt his heart slamming against his chest, his eyes burning. He was having trouble taking a full breath, but he didn't want the doctor to notice and send him back to his room, not yet. He didn't think he could take it.

"He has the best care available, Sam," Dr. Randall pressed on.

"Can I…," Sam swallowed, not taking his eyes off of Dean. "Can I have a minute with him? Please?"

Dr. Randall took a breath. "Of course. But not long. You need your rest if you're going to recover."

Sam nodded soundlessly, his eyes never leaving Dean's profile.

"I'll send a nurse back in here in a few minutes to wheel you back."

"Thanks." Sam's reply was strangled. He waited until he heard the click of the door closing behind the departing doctor and nurse before he exhaled a shaky breath.

"Hey, man," he said to Dean, using the bed rail to pull his wheelchair closer. "What a mess, huh?"

He physically ached to see Dean's lopsided, shit-eating grin, hear him rattle off a smart-assed comment about Angels being pussies, especially after they'd taken out demons. He wanted to roll his eyes at his brother's brashness, his reckless abandon. He would give anything to toss a mouthful of righteous indignation Dean's way and have his brother shoot it out of the air with all the effort of a raised brow.

The hiss of a ventilator, the beep of a monitor, the sight of a face almost too swollen to be Dean's…that wasn't his brother. That wasn't the way this was supposed to be. They'd _won_, dammit. They'd beat them.

But…_how_?

"I was set to go, Dean." Sam's voice broke. "That was the plan. Get control and take him down. What were you even _doing_ there, man? You weren't supposed to—"

His throat closed up and he had to sit back a moment. Of course Dean would be there. Sam was foolish to think that his brother would have simply let Sam say _yes_ and walk into this battle alone. He'd been ready to, though.

He'd been okay with it ending. All of it. Trapping Lucifer, hauling his ass off to the Cage, saving the world. Saving _Dean_.

For a moment his anger flared hot, bright. What the hell was Dean thinking? Showing up with no back-up, no weapons, no special powers. He had _nothing_ and he came anyway. As if compelled by a lifetime of ingrained…_stupidity_. He simply couldn't _not_ step in where Sam was concerned.

Dean knew where Sam was and the rest was gravity.

Sam almost snarled. Dean clearly didn't trust Sam to get the job done…didn't think he could overtake Lucifer…thought Michael was going to kick his ass and take over the world…doubted his strength…his will…his ability.

It wasn't until his left hand shot pain through his arm, causing his other wounds to throb, that Sam realized he was clenching his fists – or trying to, at least. Forcing himself to take a breath, then another, Sam lifted his eyes to regard his wounded brother.

_What the hell is wrong with me?_ He thought, working to force the anger back, down, away. It was too close to the surface, too sharp and real. He sniffed, tears balanced dangerously on the edge of his razor-sharp fury; it seemed his emotions were all over the place these days.

"I don't get it, Dean," Sam choked past the lump in his throat. Needing contact, he carefully reached out his right hand, his bandaged shoulder protesting the movement, to grasp Dean's left and as their fingers brushed, his world spun. He jerked his hand away as if he'd been shocked.

"What the hell?"

He flexed his fingers, shaking his hand, trying to rid himself of the sensation, remembering something similar happening when he'd touched Dean's face back at Stull. The wound on his left hand throbbed and he looked up at Dean's face once more, half expecting his brother to be reacting with the same confusion. Dean's eyes stayed stubbornly closed, his body frighteningly still except for the air pumped into his lungs by a machine.

Swallowing audibly, Sam reached out once more, hand shaking slightly, to touch the back of Dean's unbandaged hand. He had only seconds to register the warmth of his brother's skin before the world once more shifted around him and he was assaulted by images, sensations, voices.

They came at him too quickly to pull apart, differentiate. It was confusion and noise and he was almost immediately overwhelmed. It was like walking through a spider web; he couldn't stop it from clinging to him. He couldn't breathe from the pain of it, the _fear_ permeating everything. A suffocating panic at the heart of everything that built a scream in throat until he knew only terror—

"…back with us, Sam?"

"What?" he gasped, blinking, looking around, confused and disoriented.

A nurse was bending over him, vigorously rubbing his sternum, her face close to his, studying him intently. When he licked his lips, air puffing out of him as he'd run up a steep hill, she stopped her ministrations and stepped back a bit, giving him room to breathe.

"You faded on us for a minute there," she explained.

He looked past her to see two other nurses on either side of Dean's bed, one adjusting his vent tube, the other pushing a button on his IV pump.

"'s he okay?" Sam asked, his voice oddly slurred.

"You both gave us a little scare. Can you tell me what happened?"

Hell no, he couldn't tell her what happened. He barely knew what happened himself. He looked at her, shaking his head helplessly. The nurse frowned.

"Let's get you back to your room."

Sam didn't argue. He was wrung out, shaken, and thoroughly confused. His entire body ached, muscles sore and uncooperative. It hurt to breathe, as if expanding his lungs took a monumental effort.

He wanted to talk to Bobby…to Castiel…to _someone _who could help him reason out not only what happened next, but what the fuck that sensory overload was all about. But everyone was gone.

_Everyone_. He had no one – not even Dean.

The nurses helped him settle back in bed and plugged in his IV pump, checking his vitals once more. He ignored them for the most part, staring resolutely at the square-pattern of stitching in the white blanket covering his legs. If only Dean had kept to the plan…if only he'd just let Sam do his goddamn _job_, then neither of them would be in this situation. Castiel and Bobby might even be alive.

Closing his eyes, he pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting back the urge to yell at the nurses to get the hell out and leave him alone.

"Sam?"

"What." It came out like a whip of sound. He felt instantly contrite, dropped his hand and raised his eyes, sighing and repeated, "What?"

The nurse looked at him with a bland, _honey, I've seen everything_, expression, unaffected by his tone. She handed him a white plastic bag with 'Lawrence Memorial Hospital' printed on the side.

"I thought you might want your things," she told him. "They had to cut most of your clothes off of you; I think all you have in there are your jeans and shoes, but they saved everything from your pockets."

Sam took the bag from her, offering her a small smile that he didn't feel. "Thanks."

"Try to get some rest," she said. "You'll probably get moved at shift change tomorrow."

"Ok," he replied, waiting until they left before he opened the bag.

He could smell blood on his clothes…blood and dirt and an almost ozone-like stench. He dug past the denim, the boots, and found his watch, a leather bracelet, and a cell phone. The rings he remembered stuffing into the pocket of his jeans weren't there. Closing his eyes, he thought back, remembering how he'd known to toss them to the Earth…how the ground had trembled, shifted, opening up beneath them, a portal to Lucifer's Cage.

Shoulders sagging, he leaned back, the cell phone held loosely in his hand. For all he knew, those rings fell into the Pit with Michael and Lucifer. _And Adam_, he belatedly realized. Zachariah's Plan B.

"I guess none of the Winchesters ever stood a chance," he mumbled.

Thoughts still on Adam, Sam absentmindedly turned the cell phone over in his hand, flipping it open and shut twice before he registered what he was doing. This wasn't his phone and it wasn't Dean's phone. Frowning, he opened it and turned it on, remembering that he'd dug it out of Dean's jacket pocket back at Stull.

"Dad," he whispered, realizing at last whose phone he held. It was their one concession to keeping a piece of John with them. They kept it in the glove box; Dean was the one to make sure it stayed charged.

Why did Dean have _John's_ phone in his pocket?

Sam saw that there was a voice mail. His fingers suddenly felt awkward and too big as he pressed the voice mail button and put the phone to his ear. His heart jumped to his throat when he heard his brother's voice.

"_So, uh, I know this is crazy. I doubt you can hear me. I mean…we were there. Sam and me. In Heaven. Or, well, a version of it. Point is, we didn't see you, so…." _

Sam closed his eyes against the burn that threatened to consume them. He pressed the phone closer to his ear, as if he could somehow touch Dean's voice by doing so. He listened as his brother's tone shifted from uncertain to all business.

"_Okay, so here it is. First thing I can really remember you telling me was to watch out for Sam. Take care of him. And I have been. But…Dad, this is so much bigger than us. Bigger than anything you taught us about. And I think you knew about it. I think you knew and you were just hoping we'd never find out."_

Sam nodded. He couldn't help but think that Dean was right – John had known, at least some of it. He had to have.

"_But we did. And now…now I have to go back to Lawrence. Where it all started. I have to go back there and try to talk to Sam. Because…because he's in the biggest fight of his life…and he needs me. If you're hearing me now, you know what we're facing. You know what I have to do…what Sammy's gotta do. I just…," _

Sam bit his lip, listening to the desperate determination in his brother's voice.

"_God, I wish you were here."_

Dean breathed on the phone for a few more seconds and then the line went dead. Sam closed the phone, pressing it against his forehead. The anger that had been so eager to rage through him earlier was gone. In its place was a cold fist of regret, longing, and loneliness.

He knew. He _knew_ why Dean had come to that cemetery. He knew Dean had never had a choice. Hell, he hadn't even fought back when Lucifer was pounding on him. He wasn't there to try to defeat Lucifer in Sam's place.

He'd been there for Sam. _I'm not gonna leave you._

Fatigue caught up with him, rendering Sam helpless to the surge of emotion that swept over him. Curving to his side as much as his wounds would allow, Sam pulled his knees up, instinctively trying to make himself small, and gave in to the tears that had been threatening him since he'd first opened his eyes.

* * *

**a/n**: Hope you're still entertained. I'm going to take them on a bit of a journey of choice in Part 1 and play through the consequences of those choices in Part 2. Would love to have you along for the ride!


	4. Part One: Chapter 3

**Title: **From Yesterday  
**Fandom:** Supernatural  
**Author**: gaelicspirit  
**Characters:** Dean, Sam, and OCs  
**Disclaimer/Summary:** See Prologue

**Author's Note: **Thank you all for reading and reviewing! Your comments and speculations make me excited to bring you more of this story. As the boys are left with no Heavenly Healing, the next chapters will walk through through recovery and into figuring out what comes next...

* * *

Sam's morning started off busy.

After having his blood drawn and vitals checked at five a.m., a new nurse came in, blessed the entire day by removing his catheter and several of the monitors and IVs, prepping him to be moved to a new room.

He'd spent a dreamless night barely aware of anyone coming into his room; only upon fully waking had he once more thought of Dean. He asked everyone who came in about his brother, but none of them had any news for him.

Finally, just as he was about to be wheeled to the patient elevator – they'd insisted on him staying in bed, not even riding down on a wheelchair – Dr. Randall stepped in.

"Well, you're looking much better than when I saw you yesterday," the doctor exclaimed. "Looking at your chart, I see a marked improvement in all areas – even your potassium and electrolyte levels seem to be slowly increasing."

"I've always been a quick healer," Sam said, shrugging off his Wolverine-like regenerative powers and focusing on the question of the day. "How's Dean?"

Dr. Randall tilted his head. "This is remarkable improvement, Sam. You keep on this trajectory and we may be able to release you in a couple of days."

"Fantastic," Sam replied. "So, about Dean?"

Dr. Randall rolled his lips against his teeth, nodding. "Whatever antics you two were up to yesterday seems to have triggered your brother's brain activity. Where before he was registering just enough to keep his body functioning, now he's showing a very encouraging spike."

"What's that mean? He's waking up?"

"Not exactly," Dr. Randall shook his head, "but…well, I guess you could say he's dreaming. The swelling in his brain has gone down and it's working to repair itself from the damage of the concussion. That's really good news. We'll keep a close eye on him; I would anticipate we might even be able to take him off the ventilator today or tomorrow."

Sam caught his bottom lip between his teeth. "I want to be there."

"Sam—"

"Doc, I can't _not_ be there when he wakes up," Sam leaned forward on the bed. "You don't understand…my brother…I'm all he's got. We have…there's no one…." He couldn't seem to finish, the truth of his words choking him.

Dr. Randall put a hand on Sam's shoulder. "I understand, Sam. But…it's not as if he's going to open his eyes and start asking questions."

"You don't know my brother," Sam replied, an eyebrow raised, remembering that was exactly what Dean had done the last time he'd been on a ventilator. "I just – he needs to be able to see me when he wakes up. He needs to be able to see that I'm okay."

Dr. Randall sighed. Sam stared at him, quietly willing the man to acquiesce.

"Okay, Sam," the doctor replied. "When we see that he's starting to wake up, I'll make sure you're there."

"Thanks, Doc," Sam replied, relaxing a bit.

"One more thing," Dr. Randall said, pausing before he left the room. "I almost forgot. Now that you're awake and feeling better, the police are going to want to speak to you."

Sam nodded, trying to quash the sick feeling coiling in his stomach. What the hell was he going to tell them? The rumors were true: there's a gate to Hell in Stull Cemetery? He scrambled through several possibilities, dismissing each and wishing desperately to talk with Dean.

He didn't have long to think through a plausible story. Shortly after he was allowed a clear liquid breakfast, there was a knock at his – thankfully private – room door. Hitting the power button on his TV remote, he called for the person to come in.

The dark-blue uniform, side arm, and CB mic fixed to the shoulder strap sent Sam's blood pressure up. He was glad the machines monitoring such things were no longer hooked to him. Shifting uncomfortably in his bed, Sam tried to sit up straighter and look the officer in the eyes as he greeted him. The man was older, maybe late-fifties, craggy face and salt-and-pepper beard that reminded him achingly of Bobby. His dark eyes were sharp and seemed to take in the whole room with a glance.

Sam knew he looked tired, rough, four day's beard framing his jaw, but even with that he tried to empty his eyes of emotion and fix an impassive expression on his face as he'd seen Dean do countless times when facing law enforcement they weren't in the process of snowballing. Based on the officer's raised brow, he was pretty sure he just came off as young and anxious.

"My name is Sergeant Kirby Jackson," the officer told him. Sam suppressed a smirk, knowing how Dean would have reacted to the name 'Kirby.' "You can just call me Jackson."

"Sam," he replied. "Sam Winchester."

"So your doctor finally told me," Jackson replied. "As you might imagine, we've got some questions for you. Mind if I sit down?" He gestured to an uncomfortable-looking chair situated in the corner of the small room, near the foot of Sam's bed.

"Uh, no, sure," Sam nodded. "Go ahead."

He had to calm down. He'd done this before. What the hell was wrong with him? How many times had they shown up at a police station, posing as FBI Agents, and convinced the local LEOs to give them access to a closed off crime scene?

_This is no different…just a story, like all the others…._

"Okay, so, Sam," Jackson started, sitting back and resting one ankle on the opposite knee. He took out a small black notebook and flipped a few pages. "How about we start with what you boys were doing at Stull."

"I, um…," Sam cleared his throat, wishing he wasn't in the vulnerable position of lying on a hospital bed. His muscles twitched with the need to _move._ "I've been trying to think back, but, it's…it's blank."

Jackson nodded slowly. "Doc said that might be the case. Okay, how about what you're doing in Lawrence?"

_Okay, scratch that; this is _nothing_ like the others_.

For a moment Sam simply stared at the officer, working through all the possible scenarios he could come up with in that moment, all the ways they could play this, all the lies they could maintain until they got out of there and moved on, got back to doing their job.

And then his defenses dropped, his shields came down, and he looked at his bandaged left hand.

They weren't getting out of this.

There wasn't anything to move on _to_. They were alone, wounded, and Dean still had weeks of recovery that he wasn't going to be able to do on the road. They'd stopped Armageddon; he didn't even know if they still _had_ a job.

He was on his own in uncharted territory and for the first time since Dean had gone to Hell for him, he had no idea what his next step should be.

"We used to live here," he found himself saying, speaking toward his lap, eyes on the past. "We were born here – probably in this hospital."

Jackson was silent, apparently waiting Sam out.

"I don't remember it; I was a baby when we left," he continued. "But…my brother does."

"He's older then?" Jackson clarified.

"By four years," Sam nodded.

"His name is…Dean?"

Sam nodded again, listening to the pen scratch along the paper in Jackson's notebook.

"Go on," Jackson encouraged.

"We've been on this…," Sam shrugged a bit, "extended road trip. Our Dad died, I was in school. Dean just…wanted to reconnect."

"So, it was Dean's idea to return to Lawrence?"

Something in the officer's tone brought Sam's head up. "Kinda."

"I did a search on your names, Sam," Jackson told him, his expression unchanged. "Seems that Sam and Dean Winchester died in an explosion of a police station in Monument, CO, a couple of years ago."

Sam closed his eyes. _Shit_.

"Along with a few civilians, officers, and the FBI Agents who were bringing them in under suspicion of several charges, not the least of which included grave desecration, robbery," he glanced up, "and murder."

Sam released a shaky breath.

"So, why don't you tell me who you _really_ are?" Jackson prompted, letting his foot hit the floor and leaning forward.

Sam knew he had a choice. He was clever, ingenious. He'd not gotten into Stanford all those years ago on his looks. He could take the story sideways from here, play through, find an escape route. If he got to Dean in time, he could give his brother enough to keep the story going.

Or he could just let go of the pretense. For once, sit squarely inside the truth.

_Everything changes from this point forward_.

He looked over at the officer, his eyes steady, expression serious. "My name is Sam Winchester. I was born on May 2, 1983, to John and Mary Winchester, right here in Lawrence. My brother's name is Dean. He was born January 24, 1979. We are not murderers. And we are not dead."

Jackson held Sam's gaze for nearly a minute. Then, sighing as if to say _so we're going to play it that way, are we_, he flipped a page in his notebook. "Who's the old man?"

Sam flinched. "Old man?"

Jackson's eyes went hard for the first time. "Yeah, _Sam_. The old man with his neck broke lying next to an old Colt pistol and pile of blood and guts in Stull Cemetery."

Pain. Turning. Bobby. The feel of brittle bones in an invisible grip. His soul screaming.

"Bobby," he choked out.

Jackson nodded, his brows pulling together at Sam's broken tone. "Bobby Singer," he agreed, sitting back slowly as if surprised Sam had told him the truth. "Found his wallet in his back pocket. Lives in South Dakota."

Sam reached up and dragged a hand down his face; his skin was clammy and he felt light-headed.

"So, tell me this," Jackson demanded. "If you and your brother are who you say you are, and you were just heading back for a trip down memory lane, how did a junkyard owner from South Dakota ended up at a broken-down cemetery in east Kansas?"

"It's a long story," Sam all-but whispered.

"I got time," Jackson replied.

Sam looked over at him, sizing the man up, wishing with everything in him that Dean were standing next to him. His brother had always been Sam's balance in ways he knew Dean would never understand. Sam trusted Dean, depending on his knack for reading people. He needed to know if he could trust this man.

Something in his expression seemed to soften the hard edge in Jackson's eyes. The officer leaned forward once more, elbows on knees, his voice softening.

"You can talk to me, Son," he encouraged.

Sam knew this could be a ploy. A tactic. Good cop-bad cop inside the same cop.

But he was _lost_.

"I just wish." Sam took a breath, looking down at his lap, suddenly, infinitely weary. "I wish my brother were here."

A nurse walked in, glancing apologetically between Sam and Jackson.

"Sorry, Officer," she said. "Can you wait outside? We need to change his dressing."

Jackson frowned as if only just remembering that Sam had been through something significant. "I guess you're too banged up to run off on me," he said, heaving himself to his feet. He narrowed his eyes at Sam. "Don't think you're gonna leave your brother anytime soon, either."

Sam shook his head.

"I'll be back tomorrow," Jackson told him. "Be ready to tell me this long story of yours."

"Jackson," Sam called as the officer started out of the room. He waited until the officer looked back at him. "Those charges – the ones Hendrickson had on us – they're not true."

Jackson lifted an eyebrow but said nothing.

"You can research all you want," Sam continued, "but you won't find any hard evidence to back them up."

"Is that right?"

Sam licked his lips, taking a chance. "If you come back and listen to my story…you'll see what I mean. But you gotta…you gotta really _listen_."

Pressing his lips together until they disappeared behind his beard, Jackson nodded and continued out of the room. Sam exhaled slowly, giving in to the exhaustion plaguing him as he sank back against the bed, allowing the nurse access to his shoulder and hand.

www

Sam was getting tired of hearing how well – and quickly – he was healing.

It wasn't as if he didn't hurt. He couldn't remember a time he'd been this sore – as if he'd worked out every muscle in his body to the point of exhaustion, then pushed beyond. His shoulder ached, his hand throbbed, and he was starting to itch all over.

And if he had anyone he could be honest with, he'd confess that the _reason_ he was healing so quickly scared the shit out of him. He'd ingested more demon blood in one night than he'd drank in a month living off of Ruby; he'd had to in order to say 'yes' to Lucifer. But ripping the Devil from his body didn't cleanse him of the tainted blood and he had no idea what it meant that the platelets were rebuilding and repairing his body.

The knowledge that he was healing because of the dark power that had taken him further from his brother than any geographical distance ever had frightened him. What if his powers returned? Even worse…what if his _thirst_ returned? What if he wanted more, like he had before?

The thought – coupled with four days in a hospital bed – made him feel dirty. He couldn't go through that again.

Every time a nurse walked into his room, he asked if he could take a shower. After letting him eat regular food for lunch, and reacting with approval when he was able to actually sleep a bit that afternoon, they agreed he could shower, as long as his bandages didn't get wet.

Which was incredibly tricky as his right shoulder and left hand were wrapped. Reluctantly, Sam agreed to have help, knowing that Dean would have reveled in this situation. The thought gave him pause; Dean was going to need a lot of help in the coming weeks, showers the least of his worries.

"Good news," the nurse who was helping him into a clean pair of scrub pants and shirt that fit over his bandages. They'd removed his IV once he was able to keep solid foods down and stared taking his medications orally. "They're taking your brother off the ventilator."

Sam shot a look at her, his still-wet hair sticking to his cheek. "What?!"

"He's not awake yet," she hastened to assure him. "But he's improved significantly in the last twenty-four hours. He's been breathing on his own for the last two, so they're removing the ventilator."

"When will he wake up?" Sam asked, running a hand down his now clean-shaven jaw.

"Hard to say – it's different for everyone," she told him, gathering the wet towels and rags and dropping them into a basket near his door. "Could be a few more hours, could be a day."

Sam nodded.

"Get some rest, Sam," she told him. "Dr. Randall will be by in the morning to check your bandages and remove your stitches. Might talk about sending you home soon."

"Don't have a home," Sam muttered without thinking.

"Oh, uh," she stammered, uncertain. "Well…out of here anyway. That's gotta be good, right?"

Sam gave her a small smile, then waited for her to close the door. He'd been approved to walk laps around the hospital floor to get his strength back. He planned on lapping more than that. After his dinner tray was removed, Sam made every pretense of settling in for the night, smiling at his nurses in a way he could tell reassured them that he planned on behaving himself and getting plenty of rest.

As the noises in the hall shifted from day to night, he stepped out of his room, telling the nurse standing near his door that he was going to walk around a bit, couldn't sleep. She nodded, distracted. He knew there were fewer nurses at night and counted on that fact to mean his room wouldn't be checked again for several hours. With no machines beeping to alert anyone, and shift change not for eight more hours, he figured he had plenty of time.

Unobserved, he stepped onto an elevator, heading to the CCU floor. He had to lean against the wall, gripping the railing with a weak right hand. The walk to the elevator had tired him out and his back seemed to throb with even the shallowest of breaths. When the door opened on CCU, he had to take a breath before pushing away from the support of the wall.

There was more activity on this floor, but he was able to move quietly behind normally-observant nurses to Dean's room. This would be trickier; Dean _was_ hooked up to several machines and nurses would be checking in on him more often. But Sam was willing to take that risk.

He needed to be here; it was simple as that.

Dean's room was dark when Sam entered. There was a too-clean smell to everything. It was unnatural to associate that with his raucous brother. Dean got his hands dirty. He smelled like leather and gun oil, sweat and alcohol, the outdoors. He was motion and noise. Even when he was sitting, his eyes were constantly roving – as if he were looking for escape routes, checking for weapons. Sam wasn't even sure if Dean were aware he did that, but Sam had grown up counting on it.

It was because of Dean's motion that Sam had been allowed to be still. Sam knew he was seen as the grounded one, the sensible one, where Dean was explosive and reckless. Sam thought it ironic that those he'd encountered saw _him_ as the emotional center of their family with Dean as the hurricane raging about.

Sam knew it was actually exactly opposite but the only one to really ever see that was Dean. His brother looked at him in a way unique from all others – even Bobby. Dean saw the other side of Sam's eyes; the noise inside the quiet. _Dean_ was the heart of their broken, scattered little family. He was the force that kept them together – often times at the cost of his own safety, security, soul.

And Sam knew that if he didn't get that back – if he didn't get _Dean_ back – then he may as well have died back at Stull.

Moving to the far side of the room, Sam carefully drew up a chair to sit near Dean's bed. Without the vent tube inserted into his mouth, Dean seemed better – bruised and bandaged, but not quite as fragile. The swelling had gone down around his jaw and eye and now he just looked beat-to-hell rather than half-dead.

"Hey, man," Sam breathed into the forced quiet of the room. "Came back as soon as I could."

He cleared his throat softly, looking around at the shadows that clung to the walls, the machines, the curtains.

"You in here, Dean?" He asked. "I don't have a Ouija board this time. But. Y'know."

He didn't know what he expected – or hoped for. Dean's spirit had been able to communicate with him once before, but he'd been hovering close to death then, a reaper on his tail. Sam glanced at his brother, hoping that wasn't the case this time. He didn't have anything left to trade.

"You're getting better," Sam told him. "And I'm glad, too, because I don't know…I can't figure out what to do. I kinda started to tell the cops the truth." He dragged his hand down his face, tugging slightly on his bottom lip. "I can't think of anything else to do."

He looked at Dean's hand. He wasn't quite ready to touch his brother again. Even though that was the entire reason he'd crept in here.

"Bobby's gone, Dean. And Cas…I don't even know. I don't think he's dead, but…well, pretty sure that blood at Stull is his. My memory is sketchy to say the least, but I do remember how pissed Lucifer was when he saw Cas. I tried to pray to him, but…nothing."

It had been a half-hearted prayer, said right before he drifted off to sleep, like a child kneeling before their bed reciting words by rote. It had been less of a _where are you, please come back_ and more of a _how did you let this happen_.

Sam was angry. And if he couldn't take it out on his brother who'd allowed himself to be beaten nearly to death so that Sam wouldn't be alone, he was going to take it out on the angel whose brothers got them into this mess in the first place.

"The Impala is safe for now. At the police impound," he said. "Doesn't sound like they've found the weapons yet. But, I gotta get out of here and get it back before they start taking it apart."

Watching Dean's face as closely as he was, Sam was able to pick up on a slight frown, even in the dimly lit room.

"Dean?"

Lips twitched. Brows drew close.

Sam leaned forward, stopping just short of grabbing his brother's hand. Dean didn't open his eyes, but he looked troubled. As if caught in a bad dream.

"Listen, Dean, I'm gonna," he paused, licked his lips, searched for words. "I'm gonna try something. I don't know what happened before, but…well, back at Stull there was this moment where—"

Where his life had flashed before his eyes.

It was the only frame of reference he could find to categorize the slam of memories that had stunned Lucifer long enough for Sam to surge forward, grabbing control of his own body, hanging on and denying the devil his supposed due. The rush of sound and sensation and blurred, distorted images he'd experienced when he touched Dean the day before had felt like that, only jumbled, confused, and painful.

"I don't know how, or why," he said, his voice sounding ragged in his ears, "but I think something happened when...when you didn't let me fall into the Pit." He glanced helplessly around the room. "If you are hanging out here, watching me…don't make fun of me for this. But, uh," he shrugged, a helpless, slightly hysterical laugh slipping out. "I gotta test the theory."

Taking a slow, steadying breath, Sam touched Dean's leg, the blanket creating a barrier between them. Nothing. Dean breathed, eyes rolling slowly beneath his lids. Sam swallowed, then reached up and carefully ran his hand over the top of Dean's head, smoothing his brother's short hair. Nothing. Monitors beeped, voices murmured in the hall outside.

Licking his lips nervously, Sam reached out with his right hand, hovering over the back of Dean's left for a brief moment, then grabbed his brother's hand in a tight grip. It was instantaneous, immediate. And much less confusing than the day before.

Images. Sensations. They flooded him, crashing against him with an almost physical force that had him rocking back in his chair. He felt his breath hammering through parted lips, but he couldn't tell if his eyes were open or closed, it all came at him so fast.

There was no clear order, but Sam knew now he was seeing Dean's memories, seeing the world through Dean's eyes, hearing what Dean had heard. He saw their dad, young, tired, blood on his face, a knife in his hand, holding a small body and yelling over his shoulder. He saw himself as a boy, sleep-tousled hair, eyes puffy from crying, curling close as if in search of comfort. He saw a reaper, hideous, ancient face, blank eyes, cruel lips pulled back in a grimace, as it reached forward.

He saw Anna, felt her soft lips, heard her sigh, smelled her hair. He saw the underside of the Impala, felt oil dripping on his face. He saw a strange face with black eyes, felt fear surge just before a blade flashed and his flesh was parted and agony ripped through him. He heard Dean's voice calling his name, profound loss and denial tearing at his heart. He felt the weight of a body in his arms and blood on his hands.

He felt heat and pain and cold and fear. He heard his father's voice, rumbling low, filled with regret, saying words that he couldn't make out and didn't want to know. He heard his own laugh, light, clear, so happy his heart broke. He heard Dean's voice singing along to Bon Jovi. He heard Dean's screams as pain the likes of which he couldn't comprehend enveloped him. He saw himself walking away, getting on a bus. He saw himself yelling at their dad. He felt John's arms wrap around him, felt the lump of tears at the back of his throat.

He saw Jo, bleeding to death. He saw Dad, wrapped in a sheet on a burning pyre. He saw Bobby, neck broken. He saw Castiel explode in a shower of blood and flesh. He saw himself on his knees in the mud, eyes dimming. And then he saw his hands – no, no not _his_ hands…_Dean's_ hands. They were covered in blood, shaking, empty.

"Nnngghh!" He jerked away from Dean, forcing himself to release his brother's hand, trying not to cry out.

Sam was dizzy, sick, close to hyperventilating as he fought for control. He blinked to clear the tears from his vision, surprised to see he was alone in the room with Dean. It felt like years had passed in the space of the seconds he'd held on to his brother's hand. Holding onto the rail of Dean's bed, Sam tried to find his balance, his wounded shoulder throbbing like he'd been hit. As he caught he breath, he glanced over at Dean – and nearly stopped breathing once more.

Dean's eyes were open.

They were glassy, confused, but he was looking at Sam. Gasping, his skin rippling with gooseflesh and shivering with a mix of uncertainty and anticipation, Sam blinked slowly, not taking his eyes from his brother.

"Dean?" Sam rasped.

Dean blinked again, rolling his head slowly on the pillow as if it weighed 100 pounds. Sam swallowed, looking up at the monitors, totally unsure of what he should be seeing but knowing he needed to call someone now. He stood on shaky legs, pressing the nurse call button on Dean's bed. Dean looked up at him, bringing his brows together, and Sam could tell his brother wasn't all there, was still trapped in the confused web of dreams and memories.

"Hey," he whispered. "It's okay – you're okay." He carefully put his shaking hand on Dean's leg, making sure he didn't touch his brother's skin.

Dean stared at him, trying to frown around the stitches in his mouth. "-am?"

Sam felt the tears he'd forced back surge up again at the sound of Dean's strangled voice. "Yeah, man. It's me."

Before he could say anything else, a nurse stepped in, pushing the privacy curtain out of the way and looking at her patient. When she saw Dean's eyes open, she made a beeline to his bed, grabbing her phone and requesting Dr. Randall call CCU immediately.

"What are you doing here?" she snapped at Sam.

"I—" Sam took a step back as two more nurses moved into the room.

There was a flurry of activity around Dean: monitors checked, lights turned on, questions asked in raised voices to make sure Dean heard them. Sam watched his brother as Dean blinked hard, working to come around, to figure out what the hell was going on.

"Sam."

Activity slowed as the first nurse glanced over at Sam and nodded for him to move forward. Dean could barely part his lips – he sounded like he was gritting his teeth as he spoke – but Sam's name was the only clear thing they could get from him. Sam moved close, resting his hand once more on Dean's leg.

"I'm here, man."

"Y'kay?"

"Yeah, I'm okay." He smiled; he knew his brother.

"Hurts."

Sam swallowed tightly. "Yeah, listen, just take it easy, okay? You're kinda…, well, beat to hell."

"Dean? Can you hear me?" A nurse spoke up, pulling Dean's eyes her way. "I need you to try to relax okay? Just breathe easy."

Sam noticed that she was glancing with concern up at Dean's monitors. "Tell him what's going on," Sam told her softly.

She frowned at Sam, but when Dean started to try to sit up, his eyes clearing by the second, she nodded.

"Dean, you need to stay still for a bit, okay?" She put her hand on his arm and Sam watched Dean go still with the contact. "Your jaw was broken; it's been wired shut so it's going to be hard to talk for a little while."

"Thirsty," Dean rasped.

A nurse wet a small green sponge and smoothed it over Dean's lips.

"We can't give you any water yet," the first nurse told him. "Don't want anything on your stomach."

Dean closed his eyes and Sam could see him fighting to focus.

"Can you tell me what level your pain is, Dean?" the nurse asked him.

Dean opened his eyes, looking first at her, then rolled his gaze to Sam.

"He's hurting," Sam told them immediately.

"Dean, can you tell me—"

"Listen," Sam barked, making one of the nurses jump. "He's in pain, okay? Believe me."

She took a breath, her eyes narrowing at Sam once more. "I'll adjust your meds a bit now that you're awake," she said to Dean. "We'll have to wait until your doctor gets here to do anything else."

Sam nodded; Dean just blinked.

"My…back." Dean croaked.

Sam winced, remembering the screws in Dean's ribs.

"You had several broken ribs," the nurse informed him. "You had surgery to put them back together."

She moved to Dean's feet, taking the pulse in his ankles and pressing his feet forward and back, asking if he could feel her, asking him to move his toes. He obeyed and Sam felt relieved that they didn't have to add another worry to the already long list. After adjusting the monitors, two of the other nurses left and the remaining one told Dean to rest, his doctor would be in to see him in the morning.

"You need to return to your room," the nurse told him.

In an instant, Sam's decision was made. He shook his head. "I'm just gonna stay here."

"Mr. Winchester," she sighed. He'd clearly missed his window of opportunity to charm this one. "You're still recovering from your own wounds. Your brother needs rest."

"I won't bother him," Sam said. "I'll stay on the couch."

Pressing her lips tight she took a breath. "Mr. Winchester. You won't do him any favors if you—"

"Listen," Sam told her, straightening up to his full height, and forcing her to tip her head back to keep eye contact. "Call whoever you need to call. I'm staying here. Give my room to someone else; the Doc already told me you don't have a lot of empty rooms. I'll be fine."

She held his eyes for another moment, then glanced at Dean. Sam did likewise, watching his brother watch them.

"You win." She started out of the room, but then her shoulders dropped slightly. "I'll bring you a pillow and blanket."

He smiled. Maybe he'd charmed her after all. "Thanks."

When she'd gone, Sam stepped back over to Dean. "You cold?" he asked, seeing the slight tremor across Dean's bare chest. When Dean nodded, Sam pulled the blanket from his brother's waist to his shoulders, accidentally brushing his thumb against Dean's collar bone.

This time it wasn't images, and it wasn't long. Just enough of a jolt to cause Sam to gasp and Dean to flinch – as if a spark of static electricity had jumped between them. Confusion, fear, a throb of pain, then nothing. Sam looked at his brother and saw that Dean registered the moment, though he didn't understand it.

"Sam," Dean tried, his wounded lips trembling slightly.

Sam's training kicked in at the sight of Dean's swollen eyes, beseeching his for answers: threat assessment and triage. Figuring out the system-shock that occurred whenever he touched his brother was going to have to take a back seat to getting Dean strong again. Strong enough, at least, to figure this out with him.

"Just rest, Dean," Sam told him, pressing his hand on Dean's covered arm. "I'm not gonna leave you," he told him, letting the significance of the words settle between them.

Dean nodded, his lids heavy as he forced another blink. Sam watched until Dean closed his eyes, his body relaxing a bit into the bed, then moved back to ease himself down on the couch. His leg and abdominal muscles protested, but his back and neck seemed to be getting a bit better. And as long as he held his right arm _absolutely _still, his shoulder didn't cause him too much trouble.

He tried to relax back against the couch, his gaze resting on his brother's profile. After that rush of images and sensation, he was pretty sure it was going to take him awhile to calm down. He doubted he'd really get any true rest all night, anxious for the next time Dean opened his eyes.

He was asleep before the nurse brought his pillow.

* * *

**a/n**: Yay! Dean's awake. I'd missed him. Ready to see how he's going to handle all of this?


	5. Part One: Chapter 4

**Title: **From Yesterday  
**Fandom:** Supernatural  
**Author**: gaelicspirit  
**Characters:** Dean, Sam, and OCs  
**Disclaimer/Summary:** See Prologue

**Author's Note: **Thank you all so much for reading, reviewing, favoriting, following. I *think* I have some time off coming up end of November and hope to add "replying to reviews" to my non-work to-do list. Also, apologies *again* for this not being posted on Friday. This time it was not my fault, though. Really. **lovinjackson** is visiting from Australia and she had to be educated in the fantastic story and imagery that is "Warrior." We're still in a react and recover phase of the story, but I am working to make everything that's happened to them have the proper amount of impact. I hope you enjoy!

* * *

When Dean opened his eyes, he saw Sam standing on the left side of his bed, looking down, his face oddly shadowed.

Dean blinked, struggling to focus, not sure what he was seeing; Sam's face looked scarred, the right side lined with thick, raised tracks like claw marks, one eye blood-red and filled with angry accusation.

He started to reach his hand out toward his brother, when a voice from his right startled him.

"Hey, you're awake!"

Dean flinched, turning his head as quickly as the aching muscles in his neck allowed, and was surprised to see Sam emerging from a small room that appeared to be a restroom. Shivering from the after-effect of the false image of his brother's face, he frowned looking once more to the left side of his bed, but no one was there. He pressed his eyes tightly closed, the skin along the left side of his face stretching, the sting of stitches too familiar to ignore.

"You okay?"

Dean tried to nod, needing instinctively to reassure his brother when he heard that tone in Sam's voice, but he found he couldn't. He was concentrating too hard on trying to lick his lips, realizing that he had to force his tongue out through teeth that wouldn't part as he ordered.

"What…?"

Sam moved closer to him; Dean could sense him, smell him, though he had yet to re-open his eyes.

"Dean? You want me to call the nurse?"

This time, Dean was able to shake his head. Barely a movement, but it was enough: he could tell that Sam relaxed slightly. Dean felt his body tremble a bit from the inside out. He felt…hollow. Like there was gaping hole at the center of his torso, pulling at him, sucking everything inside. He opened his eyes once more to get a better look at Sam's face and saw no scarring, no shadows.

Sam was clean-shaven, the skin beneath his eyes purpled with weariness, perhaps slightly paler than usual, but wholly _Sam_. Sunlight filtered through the room from somewhere to his left and bathed Sam's face with approving light. Dean felt a weak rush of relief that he didn't fully understand. Despite the shimmer that he felt just beneath his skin, he was foggy, his memory behind a veil of pain and medicine.

He wanted to physically push it away.

As he blinked up at his brother, though, Dean realized that something was, indeed, off – but it wasn't with _Sam_. Shadows still seemed to cling to half of the room, like a curtain that had been drawn across his face. He began to reach up toward his eye clumsily with his right hand, then saw that it was heavily bandaged and tried using his left.

"Whoa, wait, hang on," Sam started to reach for him, but then inexplicably jerked his hand back. "What are you doin', Dean?"

"The patch," Dean mumbled, his lips feeling as dry and cracked as his voice. He wanted to get the patch over his eye out of the way so he could really look at Sam.

"What patch?"

"Over m'eye," Dean grumbled. What patch did Sam think he was talking about?

"There's no patch over your eye, man," Sam told him, and Dean blinked, his left hand half-way to his face.

"Then what…?" He carefully touched his cheek, running his fingers along his cheekbone and across his swollen eye to his brow and forehead. He could feel stitches there, the skin around them stretched. He traced his face, finding none of the same damage on his right side. He was running his hand along his jaw when Sam stepped away from the bed.

Dean frowned at first until his brother reappeared with a small shaving mirror he'd retrieved from the bathroom.

"You ready?" Sam asked him.

Dean nodded, needing a clear picture more than anything. Sam turned the mirror around and Dean stared at his reflection, feeling his breath catching in his throat. He didn't recognize himself: swelling aside, stitches framed his left eye and, beneath several days' growth of beard, his jaw where they'd had to put his face back together. Bruises painted both sides of his face, concentrated on his left and around his mouth.

He closed his left eye and saw his damaged reflection clearly. Closing his right and opening his left, he saw the curtain over half of his vision, his peripheral vision shadowed and murky.

"Fuck me," he breathed. "Two-Face."

"I'm…I'm so sorry, Dean," Sam whispered. Dean looked up at him and frowned, confused when Sam's eyes skated away. "If I could take it all back—" Sam broke off, choked, stepping back to set the mirror on the counter behind him. "I saw it…I _saw_ what he was doing, I just…."

Tears swam in Sam's eyes and still Dean stared at him, trying to match Sam's words to the grayed-out images behind the veil in his memory.

Sniffing, Sam looked up, wiping at his nose with a heavily bandaged left hand. "You saved me, Dean," he said in a voice both young and old and so weary it made Dean feel heavy. "I don't know how, but…you did."

Dean closed his eyes. He needed to remember. It was so close…so _close_. He could almost touch it, but the harder he tried, the fainter it became. If he could just _think…_but everything hurt. _Everything;_ more pain than he'd felt in a long time. He took a slow, shallow breath, trying to relax, trying to ease the hurt away.

Blackness took over, a sort of empty room inside of him, with deep corners and walls that tossed words around like they were devoid of shape or meaning. He felt himself moving through this room, his thoughts like a skipping record, the needle bouncing between sights, smells, sounds until he was bowed by it all, wanting to retreat.

But he couldn't. He knew that. Retreat, and they were dead. Retreat, and it had all been pointless.

He had to push forward, seek the light he knew would blast the darkness from this room entirely. The light he remembered seeing when he grabbed Sam's hand. When he held on with his last remaining strength – his body shaking, blood choking him, breath breaking off inside of him – not willing to let Sam fall, refusing to let Lucifer win.

He opened his eyes once more with a gasp, the moments in Stull flooding back to him with such intensity he reached out, grabbed the bed rail to steady himself. He saw Sam standing to his right, as if waiting for him, and turned to tell his brother that he remembered, he _knew_, when he suddenly realized that the room was dark, quiet.

Sam _wasn't_ next to him; he was sleeping on a fold-out couch to his left.

Frustrated, Dean rubbed at his face, careful to avoid the stitches, and willed his mind and vision to get on the same freakin' page. His breath caught once more as he tightened his grip on the bed rail. He felt oddly weightless, as if gravity had deserted him, and without Sam's hand gripping his, he was left with nothing to cling to but dust.

Movement to his right had him jerking his head to the side, needing to see who was coming toward him. A nurse pushing a computer on a tall, wheeled stand slipped quietly into the room. She met his eyes with a smile, then looked past him to the couch.

"Asleep finally, huh?" She whispered quietly with a nod toward Sam. "Stubborn brother you've got there."

Dean simply nodded. His mouth was too dry to try much else.

"It's good to see _you're_ awake," the nurse continued. "Every time I came in today, you were asleep."

She made some adjustments on the monitors attached to him, to his IV, and to his catheter before returning back to his line of sight. "We've cut back on your morphine," she informed him. "Doctor has approved some liquids. You feel like a drink?"

He wanted to snap out a sarcastic response, but all he could do was swallow, painfully, his eyes on the small, pink pitcher of water. She slipped the straw between his lips and cautioned him to take small sips. It felt like liquid heaven, skipping down his parched throat. He ached to open his mouth wider, but was prevented by what he could feel with his tongue were thin wires along the inside of his mouth.

"What's wrong w'me?" he managed. It sounded clearer this time, though still clenched and raspy, as if someone had been strangling him.

Concern creased the nurse's youthful face, but her eyes were soft. "You were beaten pretty badly. Do you remember any of it?"

He remembered all of it. Every punch, every word, every broken bone. He simply blinked at her, letting her draw her own conclusion. Experience had taught him to say as little as possible until he knew what angle they were playing.

"I'll let your brother or the doctor tell you about the circumstances that brought you in here," she sighed, "but I'll let you know that we're all pretty impressed with how you're doing."

"Always been a quick healer," he said.

She smiled. He decided he liked her smile. "Your brother said the same thing," she told him. "He's still recovering from a gunshot wound and a damaged hand, but he wouldn't let us stick him on a floor away from you."

Dean rolled his head to the side to regard his sleeping brother. When Sam slept – truly _slept_, not the tense, troubled rest riddled with visions and nightmares – he looked like a child. Legs akimbo, mouth open, hair swirled around his head, the lines on his face vanished and innocence regained ground lost by experience. He looked…_peaceful_.

So much so that Dean felt a pang of envy and looked away. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt that sort of peace.

The dark behind his eyes had been filled with nothing but Hell and regret and memories of the atrocities he'd witness and visited upon other souls since he'd climbed out of his own shallow grave.

He longed for a night without dreams.

"What's wrong w'my hand?" Dean asked, lifting his bandaged arm slightly from the pillow it rested upon. He'd seen Sam's hand wrapped almost exactly the same way.

"You have a wound on your palm," the nurse told him, holding her hand up and tracing a finger in a circular pattern on the inside of her own hand. "It's about the size of a half-dollar, and it was quite deep. Whatever weapon caused it damaged nerves, tendon, and bone."

"Sam too?"

She tilted her head. "His is similar, but not as deep."

Dean nodded slowly. The amulet. He'd felt it burning through him, fusing them together, lighting the air around him on fire.

"Your jaw is wired shut," she continued. "But I suspect you knew that. I'm afraid you'll have to get used to milkshakes for a little while."

Dean leaned back, looking up at the ceiling, listening as she continued to report his list of injuries. They sounded vaguely familiar; he was pretty sure he'd heard it before, but couldn't remember if Sam had told him, or one of the nurses. His back hurt with every breath. He couldn't really feel the fractured hip, but then again, he hadn't really moved around much. His head felt muffled, wrapped in cotton, but with a strange sort of lingering weight that told him the moment the good drugs wore off, he was going to want them right back.

"You should try to get some rest," the nurse told him. "Doctor usually comes in at shift change in the morning, and I suspect the police will be back now that you're awake."

That caught his attention. "Back?"

"To talk with you about…how you came to be here."

"They were here?" Dean felt the stitches around his eye pull as he frowned.

"I believe they talked to your brother…?" She shrugged. "I'm not sure; I wasn't on shift at the time."

_Shit_.

He needed to talk to Sam, soon. Nodding his understanding as the nurse left the room, he looked over at his peacefully sleeping brother. Part of him wanted to wake Sam, talk through what the hell they were going to do now. He was all busted up; Sam had a bum arm, and Bobby—

Dean's breath caught, hearing once again the sound of Bobby's bones breaking under Lucifer's hand...seeing his friend's body simply fall to the ground, lifeless, the Colt tumbling uselessly beside him...feeling the wrenching scream - **_NO_**! - tear through his heart.

Bobby was dead. _Gone_.

More than likely lying in a drawer in the morgue, cold and still like so many other bodies he and Sam had viewed in their years handling the family business. Dean felt his throat close up, tears burning the backs of his eyes. He tried to swallow the emotion, shove it back down inside that dark room where the shadows would eat it up, but it was too big.

He tried to mentally pray to Cas, hoping the _need_ in his heart would be loud enough the angel would hear him. But he'd seen Castiel explode. His vessel gone. Could he return? _Would_ he? If only to whisper the answers Dean so desperately needed?

Closing his swollen eyes, he felt a tear trickle through his lashes, spilling down his wounded cheek to slip through his whiskers, another following in its wake. His chest burned with a sharp, clear pain.

Bobby had been the closest thing they had left to family, and with a flick of Lucifer's hand, he was gone. No parting words, no last glances, no goodbye. And Cas had been his friend – one of the few _true_ friends Dean had ever had in his lifetime.

People like Bobby, like Cas…like _Dad_…no way had yet been invented that would ever allow Dean to say goodbye.

Dean took a shaky breath, working to keep as quiet as possible, but the sob tore through his defenses, fueled by exhaustion and pain and loss so deep he wouldn't ever find the bottom of it. Grief he hadn't felt even when John died washed over him; it wasn't only Bobby, it was Cas, their shattered security, the absence of a clear plan.

It was watching Sam disappear from his own eyes. It was the visceral memory of a fist against flesh.

It was Hell and sacrifice and the constant, constant struggle. And it was an empty road with no map and no destination.

Save Sam, or kill him. That had been his father's last order. It had shaped Dean's life since John's death. It had driven him to Hell. And he'd finally finished the mission.

Sam had been saved. The world had been saved.

And Dean was lost.

www

Morning brought with it a new chapter of pain.

Dean heard voices before he came fully aware, swimming up from the murky depth of dreams where Sam stood in a prison of flames, calling out for help with a voice that sounded like snakes hissing.

His bones aching, head pounding like the mother-of-all hangovers, Dean lay still for a moment, listening, wondering if this time when he opened his eyes, he would see what was really in front of him, or what his mind only _thought_ was in front of him.

"…showing remarkable improvement. I'm really rather amazed that he's come this far so fast."

"He barely stays awake for a few minutes at a time, though, Doc." That was Sam, Dean knew. He sounded worried.

"His brain needs time to heal, Sam. It's not a simple as any other wound. A severe concussion like Dean's could take weeks, even months, to fully heal. Try not to worry."

"Worrying's his favorite," Dean muttered, opening his eyes to slits to see if the people matched where the voices told him they'd be.

He saw a tall, black man standing next to Sam at the foot of his bed. Both turned toward him at the sound of his voice and Dean opened his eyes the rest of the way, watching as they moved toward him. He blinked slowly, then looked again: still standing on the right side of his bed.

"Good."

"Good?" Sam repeated.

"You're there," Dean elaborated.

Sam's face knotted once more in concern. "Where else would we be?"

Dean slid his gaze to the other man. "See? Likes to worry."

"I do not," Sam automatically protested.

"Are you seeing delayed images, Dean?" The doctor asked him.

"You mean…people where…they're not supposed…to be?" It was hard for him to force that many words through his clenched teeth, but it was the closest to _normal_ he'd sounded in awhile.

The doctor nodded.

"Yeah," Dean told him.

"It's an after-effect of the concussion," the doctor nodded. "We see with our brains, not our eyes. Your brain is trying to reassemble the images it thinks it's supposed to be seeing." He stretched out his left hand so that Dean could shake it. "We haven't been properly introduced. My name is Frank Randall. I've been yours and your brother's doctor since you came in here last week."

Dean darted his eyes toward Sam. _A week?_ Sam nodded, seeming to instinctively know what Dean would be worried about. He lifted his index finger, indicating Dean should wait; he'd fill him in when Dr. Randall left. Dean looked back at the doctor.

"Water?"

Dr. Randall held up a cup full of water, guiding the straw to Dean's mouth. "You'll be on a strict diet of clear liquids for awhile yet, but then we can move you to more substantial liquids like protein shakes and pureed meals."

"Yummy," Dean grumbled.

"You'll have to have your jaw x-rayed again in two weeks and we'll determine then how much longer to keep it wired."

"A mess, huh?" Dean asked.

"That's putting it lightly." The doctor looked at the computer to his left. "We've changed your pain meds; what's your pain level?"

Dean lifted a shoulder. "Six."

He didn't miss Sam's raised eyebrow, but unless the pain reached a truly unbearable ten, he wasn't going to request more pain medication. He needed to be clear-headed and alert, not gray-veiled and foggy.

"And your back?"

Dr. Randall used the bed controls to tilt Dean's upper body a bit more vertical, then helped him ease forward. The motion put pressure on his hip and he swore he felt each muscle and bone along his back stand up to make themselves known. His whole body felt suddenly on high-alert, ready to shift from ache to agony at a moment's notice. The doctor pulled a bandage away and Dean felt gentle fingers probing at a particularly painful spot along his back.

"It's healing nicely; we had to put four screws in your ribs to keep them in place."

"Gonna be fun going through airport security," Dean muttered tightly as the doctor eased him back.

"As if you'd ever willingly fly," Sam retorted, drawing a half-grin from Dean's wounded mouth.

"I need to look at your eyes, Dean," Dr. Randall told him, pushing a button and dimming the lights above Dean's bed.

A penlight moved across his right eye, causing Dean to flinch from the intensity of it. As it moved across his left, Dean wanted to flinch, but found that the curtain was still there, mottling the left half of his vision and filtering the beam of light.

Dr. Randall's face was pulled tight in concentration as he straightened up. "I want you to look directly forward at the clock on the wall over there. Okay, now, tell me when you can see my hand, Dean," he ordered.

Dean did as he was told and waited. The doctor's hand was almost directly in front of him by the time he said, "Now."

"What does that mean?" Sam asked.

Dean could see his brother watching him worriedly. He was right. Worrying _was_ Sam's favorite.

"Well, your pupil is reacting normally; it doesn't appear to be damage to the eye itself. I believe this to be from the concussion, Dean. Your brain has swelled and it's putting pressure on your ocular nerve. Not to mention the amount of abuse the bones around your eye suffered from the beating and subsequent surgery to repair it."

"So…it'll get better?" Dean asked.

Dr. Randall nodded slowly. "It could. I would like you to see an ocular specialist here in town once you're released."

Dean looked at Sam. Would they even be staying in town? The job was done. When the job was done, they moved on. But, with the exception of Bobby's junkyard, where would they even go?

"Okay," he replied, still looking at his brother.

"We'll get you up out of bed tomorrow, Dean," Dr. Randall told him. "It won't feel good, but—"

"Sooner the better, Doc," Dean replied.

"You keep improving like you are, and you'll be out of here in no time." He turned to Sam. "We need to change your bandages, Sam. I want to check your wounds."

Sam's nod was stilted, anticipatory. "Sure." He moved around to the other side of Dean's bed and sat down slowly on the edge of the reassembled couch.

Dean watched carefully as the doctor first unwrapped Sam's hand. He could see the angry wound and winced in sympathy as the doctor touched around the edges, watching Sam's fingers respond. It reminded Dean of the Luke Skywalker getting his bionic hand in _Empire Strikes Back_. Sam's fingers curled in slowly as the doctor poked at them; he wasn't able to make a fist, but he could move all of his fingers. The doctor applied a clear salve to the wound, then re-wrapped it.

Next he looked at Sam's shoulder and Dean remembered the sound of the Colt echoing across the quiet cemetery, turning Sam's body toward Bobby.

"Two," he muttered.

Dr. Randall looked over his shoulder at Dean. "What was that, son?"

"Two shots," Dean looked at Sam.

Sam shook his head imperceptibly, but it was too late.

"You remember that?" Dr. Randall straightened up, Sam's bandage momentarily forgotten.

"I…I heard it," Dean finished lamely.

"The first creased his back," Dr. Randall nodded. "The second was a through-and-through. But you're mending well, Sam." He looked back down at Sam. "Keep taking the antibiotics, keep ahead of the pain, and we can probably start you on physical therapy in a week."

"Thanks, Doc."

"I'll be back in to check on you both tomorrow," Dr. Randall told them. "Don't do anything to bring me back sooner," he smiled.

"You got it, Doc," Sam smiled back, waiting until the doctor had left before standing and moving closer to Dean's bed. "You remember?"

Dean nodded. "You?"

"Most," Sam tilted his head. "It's a little mixed up in here."

_That'll happen when you have the Devil playing Twister in your noggin_. Dean regarded his brother solemnly. "Tell me."

He dropped his head back against the pillows behind him. It was almost too heavy.

"I, uh," Sam moved around the foot of Dean's bed, seemingly unable to stand still. "I remember mostly hearing his voice. Inside, y'know? Not _my_ voice saying his words. It was...strange. And it...it sounded like…hissing."

Dean brought his head up. "What was that?"

"Hissing. Words, y'know, but all…raspy." Sam cradled his sling-bound right arm with his bandaged left. "He kept trying to convince me that I'd been heading toward him all my life. Showed me things…," he shook his head. "Ugly things. Things he'd done all through our lives to lead me right to him."

"Sam. You beat him," Dean reminded him.

Sam turned to face his brother. "Because of you."

Dean shook his head. "No. _You_ beat him."

"I beat _you_, Dean," he said softly, his eyes tracing Dean's battered face. "I remember that. I remember the rage inside me. I remember feeling your bones break." Dean swallowed but didn't dare take his eyes from Sam's face. "I remember that it felt…it felt good. It felt good because _he _wanted it so badly. He wanted you dead, Dean."

"'m still here."

"Barely."

"Barely counts, Sammy," Dean rasped, reaching for the cup of water. His throat was on fire. He wasn't ever going to be able to drink enough.

Sam stepped closer to help him. Before either of them had time to think, Sam's fingers brushed the back of Dean's hand and the resulting shock was enough to cause Dean to flinch away, dropping the cup of water to the floor.

"Son of a bitch."

It had felt like a surge – a power surge of emotion. It hadn't been long enough to form words that would describe it, but it was enough that Dean was shaking.

"I'm sorry," Sam gasped, stepping back. "I should have—I meant to tell you."

"Shit." Dean felt slightly ill, like the ground had unexpected shifted beneath him, leaving his balance dipping and spinning. "The hell?"

Sam grabbed a towel from the counter behind him and put it over the puddle on the floor, then poured more water for Dean. He carefully avoided making any sort of contact as he handed it over, Dean noticed. Dean sucked the cup dry waiting for Sam to elaborate.

"I noticed it the first time they let me see you. I touched your shoulder and it was like…getting sucked into a nightmare."

"A vision?" Dean asked.

Sam shook his head, resuming his pacing once more. "No, not like that. It was like…," he shook his head again, as if hoping the right words would fall into place in his mind. "I felt…sick. I felt pain – but it wasn't _my_ pain."

He looked back at Dean and his eyes pooled, his face losing years as the words he sought seemed to evaporate before he was able to anchor them.

"Sammy?"

The way his brother was looking at him sent a shiver through Dean, making him feel exposed, vulnerable.

"I tried it again. When I was a little stronger. I…I touched you. Your arm."

"And?"

"This time it was more…focused. I saw…memories."

Dean blinked, trying to absorb what Sam was telling him, starting to get it. "My memories?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure. I mean, it's the only thing that made sense. I think I saw what you were dreaming about."

At that Dean felt bile burn the back of his throat. His dreams were too bent and broken for anyone else to witness. He rolled his lips against his teeth as much as his stitches would allow.

"What'd y'see?"

Sam simply shook his head. "It was too much to remember now, but it was like…walking through parts of your life, like your brain was trying to rebuild your memory bank or something."

Dean looked away.

"Dean, what if it's…do you think it's from...the demon blood?"

At that Dean frowned, searching his brother's face, asking with a glance for Sam to elaborate.

"Do you think I'm…poisoned or something? With all that blood?"

"No, Sam," Dean shook his head. "It's not that."

Sam stood absolutely still for a heartbeat, staring at him, then dropped his head, addressing the floor. "You did something, didn't you? To us, I mean."

Dean glanced at Sam's left hand, dropping his gaze to his own right. _I don't know the lengths to which the beacon will mark you_, Cas had said. Dean had felt the power, felt the heat. The light had surged around them. Through him. He'd felt the amulet ignite something inside of him, blending with him and incinerating any shred of doubt or darkness outside of him.

"I had to," he said, forcing his clenched-teeth voice to be as clear as he could.

Sam's eyes slid his way; he shifted nervously from one foot to the other as he worked to find a way to confess thoughts he'd clearly been chewing on for several days as Dean worked to regain consciousness.

"When you grabbed my hand," Sam began, "it was _me_. Lucifer was there, but…it was me."

"I know, Sammy," Dean said softly, feeling his battered body shiver from weariness, the adjusted meds not nearly enough to cover the threshold of pain thrumming steadily through his head and jaw. He wanted to close his eyes, block it all out. But he couldn't give in now.

Everything was going to change with Sam's next words.

They were never going to go back to the way things were before they found out about their angelic destinies, before there was a sacrificial choice to make. With an ache that speared his heart, Dean wanted nothing more than to crawl out of his hospital bed, climb behind the wheel of the Impala, and just drive.

Away from the truth he caused. From the truth Sam had already realized.

"You…lit up. Like Cas did when he went all…Angel of the Lord. Light just…it came from everywhere. Your eyes, your mouth, your damn skin," Sam pressed on, moving closer to the foot of Dean's bed. "And it was hot. _Everything_ was - you, me, the damn air. I could hear screaming. Inside me. Lucifer felt the heat, Dean. From that light."

Dean found that he was barely breathing. He was lightheaded and tried to draw in a ragged, shallow breath.

"Adam – or, I mean Michael, I guess – kinda…dove for me. But he didn't get me. He got—"

"Lucifer," Dean whispered.

Sam nodded. "He kinda…I don't know…_tore_ him out of me. I _felt_ him tear free."

"Damn, Sammy," Dean shook his head, looking down. "That…had to hurt like hell."

"It did. It felt like every muscle in my body was pulled at once. But…," Sam moved around to the left side of Dean's bed, forcing Dean to turn his head to fully see him. "Dean, he's _gone_."

"Where?"

Sam lifted a shoulder. "The Cage? All I know is a big-ass hole opened in the ground under those damn rings and Michael dragged his brother down there."

"With Adam."

Sam shook his head. "Adam…," he sighed.

Dean swallowed. Cas had said Adam was an inferior vessel. They'd truly all been damned from the start.

"Dean," Sam said softly, leaning forward, blocking out the light from the window behind him. "What did you do, man? How did…with the light, and…," he held up his bandaged hand helplessly.

Dean closed his eyes. It was getting hard to see Sam from that angle. He leaned his head back. "The amulet."

"Wait, what?"

"Move over here," he grumbled, nodding to his right side. "Can't see you."

"Oh," Sam sounded surprised. Dean felt him move around the end of the bed. "I'm sorry, Dean."

"Stop, Sam." He opened his eyes. That was better. "_You_ didn't do this."

Sam looked a little sick, glancing down at his healing knuckles. Dean was too tired to drag his brother out of his well of guilt, so he simply continued.

"Cas dug it out of the trash can in that motel."

"How'd he even know—"

"Long story, different time," Dean sighed. His head was pounding. This was the longest he'd been awake in days. "Cas said...the amulet finds the power of God…in the righteous man."

Sam just blinked owlishly at him. "The righteous man?"

Dean nodded.

Sam looked toward the window with shadowed eyes. He was quiet for several minutes, then, "I drank gallons of demon blood so that Lucifer wouldn't burn through his vessel," he said almost too softly for Dean to hear, "and you were able to find the power of _God_?"

Dean didn't speak; there wasn't anything he could say. Forces more powerful than two guys from Kansas had pitted them as pawns in a game of chess where the universe was the prize and there had been little either of them had been able to do about it.

Had Dean said 'yes' to Michael instead of showing up as a mere human, the amulet in his grip, he and Sam would have fought to the death in a run-down cemetery in Lawrence, Kansas, while the world imploded from the power surge.

Death himself had been controlled by Lucifer; there wasn't much Sam was going to be able to do to stop the fallen angel from having his way. And yet, when it counted, Sam had been strong enough, his soul bright enough, to wrestle the controls _away_ from the Devil.

There was nothing Dean had done or would ever do that could match that strength. He just wished he could find the words to help Sam understand that.

"So, what…you had the amulet in your hand?" Sam continued, his voice steadying.

Dean nodded.

"And that's what burned us?" Sam touched his bandaged hand to Dean's, careful to avoid skin contact.

Dean nodded again.

"Guess it's a good thing you weren't wearing it around your neck," Sam muttered.

Dean blinked. He hadn't thought about that.

"So…what's with the…Winchester mind meld?"

"Don't know. Cas didn't know what it'd do to me."

Sam bounced his head back. "Of course. 'Cause having all the answers would be too easy."

"Maybe it'll go away."

"Yeah," Sam looked down, "maybe. And maybe it won't. And maybe you'll grow wings and turn into a frikkin' angel."

"Sammy…," Dean pleaded. "Stop."

Sam rubbed his forehead. "There's gotta be somebody we can ask. Maybe try praying to Cas—"

"No," Dean interrupted, a stab of loss cutting through him. "We're on our own."

Sam frowned. "Cas isn't dead, Dean. He can't be. He's an angel. They can only be killed by one of their swords…right?"

"No more vessel."

Sam looked out through the window once more, the mid-day sun filtering through the blinds to paint lines across his face. "They didn't find the angel brands."

"Huh?"

Sam glanced back at him. "On our bones. They operated on both of us, but…doc never brought it up. Not once."

Dean lay back, thinking. The light…the _heat_ had been so much. Could it have _reversed_ the protection markings? Healed them, in effect? And what did that mean as far as angels finding them? Would any even be looking for them now?

"You haven't asked about Bobby."

Dean closed his eyes. He hurt. So much pain, rivers of it, running from his head through his heart.

"He's in the morgue," Sam continued. "We're listed as next of kin."

"'Kay."

"There's more, Dean."

"I know," Dean whispered. There always was. It wasn't enough to simply lose someone; they had to lose someone _and_ be screwed over in every possible way. "Tired."

"We have to decide what to do with him, Dean. We can't just leave him there. We're gonna be here for awhile…no way you're gonna be able to travel. I gotta figure out where how we're gonna stay here and—"

"Sam, _please_." He couldn't hear anymore, think anymore. The hollow space inside of him was pulling everything Sam said, all of his worrying, all of his fears close and Dean was aching with the weight of it.

"Okay." Sam moved away from the bed, finally hearing that Dean was spent. "We can take a break."

Dean opened his good eye. "You staying here?"

"Yeah, man," Sam smiled sadly. "Not gonna leave you."

With those hauntingly familiar words echoing in his head, Dean allowed his aching body to give in to the cloying dark.

www

The cop had them against the ropes.

Dean had been furious when Sam first recapped his initial conversation with Sergeant Kirby Jackson – and seriously, _Kirby_? – but now that he was here, facing them, all serious-faced taking no shit, and holding the goddamned _Colt_, Dean knew they were screwed. Sam had done the only smart thing.

"You still with us, Dean?"

The cop tilted his bearded chin, catching Dean's straying eyes.

"Yeah. Tired. Been a long day."

Jackson nodded sagely, as if, Dean grumbled silently, he had any idea what it was like to be beaten nearly to death by his possessed brother. Dean used his left hand to push up on the armrest of the chair he'd finally been moved to, trying to readjust the pressure on his hip. The pillow he sat on only did so much to cushion the weight of his own body on the weakened bone.

Earlier that day, Dr. Randall had signed off on his getting out of bed. Dean had envisioned walking around the hospital floor, stretching and strengthening atrophied muscles, getting himself closer to escaping the hospital. He hadn't anticipated how much it would tire him out to simply sit on the edge of the bed. Sitting up had put pressure on his screwed-together ribs and the suture wound on his back, so he'd had to roll to his right side – while not putting weight on his bandaged hand – and slowly bring his legs over to the side of the bed.

"That's it," the nurse had coached him when he gasped from pain, "go slowly."

"_Mother fucker_," Dean hissed, wanting to say so, so much more.

"Inside voice, Dean," Sam had cautioned him.

"It's okay," the nurse had replied. "I've heard worse."

Dean had balanced on the edge of the bed, waiting for the world to stop its crazy spin and settle down already. He gripped the sheets with his left hand, his right resting uselessly in his lap. He continued to swear softly through his force-clenched teeth until the waves of pain ebbed and he was able to take a shallow breath.

"We don't have to do more," the nurse told him. "You're doing great just sitting up."

Shaking his head, Dean had motioned toward the chair. "Help me."

"You don't have to—"

Dean cut his eyes over to Sam. "When's that cop commin' in?"

Sam had nodded. "Said around noon."

"Chair," Dean had demanded, not caring if his body lit on fire just to get him over there. No way was he meeting with some cop while lying in a bed.

He'd been upright in the chair for about twenty minutes when Sergeant Kirby Jackson walked in, nodded at Sam, and offered his right hand to Dean to shake. Dean had to shake with his left, which started everything out awkwardly, but he let it go the moment he saw the Colt.

Without warning, the image of Bobby standing next to the blood pool that had been Castiel, trying to save Dean's life by ending Sam's, had returned and the accompanying grief made his vision white out. He ended up missing the first several things Sergeant Jackson had said to them.

It didn't matter, though. Dean already knew what he was going to say.

Sam had caught him up on Jackson's initial visit first thing that morning when Dr. Randall informed them that Jackson was returning later in the day. He'd been braced for Dean to be pissed; that much had been clear. Dean wasn't so much angry, though, as confused.

Why tell the cops the truth? They'd always had a contingency plan, a way out. He'd get moving around, check out AMA, and they'd head out. To the next town, the next job, the next…whatever.

"Not this time," Sam had told him. Dean had leveled his eyes on his brother's face, noticing the lines of worry, the twitch at the corner of one eye, the weariness in the way Sam held his body. "Dean, man, we're not slipping out of this one."

"'ll be fine—"

"No!" Sam had snapped, loud and sharp, before tempering his tone. "No, Dean. _Not this time_. You're going to require therapy just to manage the pain in your ribs, let alone get your hand working again. And…Dean, Bobby's _dead_. There's no one…nothing to go to."

Dean had simply stared at him, any words of argument evaporating before his eyes.

"We stopped the goddamned Apocalypse, Dean," Sam had said, his teeth clenched as tightly as Dean's. "And we lost _everything_."

Dean had kept his eyes on his brother's; he could see where Sam was going, why Sam had felt desperate enough to scrap all their cover stories, all their safe guards, and just go with truth. Just, for once, be two brothers in need of help.

After all, they were in their hometown. If they were going to get help anywhere, he'd like to think it would be here. And Dean could easily see by the tremble in Sam's hands, the tightness around his brother's eyes…Sam was scared. He needed Dean to _not_ fight him on this. Whatever his reasons, Sam had made the choice to jump and was asking Dean to follow him.

"I did what I had to, Dean," Sam declared while his whole being pleaded with Dean to back his play on this one.

Dean looked down. They'd been in tough situations before. They'd been at the cliff's edge, forced to handle what they could deal with while they figured out how to deal with what they couldn't handle. But before…there'd always been _someone_ out there. Someone like Dad, Caleb, Pastor Jim, Ellen, Jo, Bobby, Cas….

Sam was right. They were on their own. And if they were arrested for it, well, it wouldn't be the first time they had to figure out how to break out of jail.

"'K, Sam. You win."

"Just…answer his questions without any bullshit."

Dean nodded, lifting his eyes. "Bullshit-free zone. Swear."

Sam had frowned at him. "And try not to look like you want to shoot your way outta here."

As appealing as the idea had been, Dean got the message. The moment the cop walked in, he'd fixed his wounded warrior mask in place, closeting the fact that he knew he could out-cop this cop with his hands tied behind his back.

He worked to tune in as Jackson recounted what Sam had told him the last time he'd been in – which, it turned out, had been two days ago.

Jackson had been busy in those two days.

"Like I was saying," Jackson continued, once he was assured Dean was paying attention, "I did some research on the charges Agent Hendrickson had brought against you both. Turns out you were right, Sam. They were all circumstantial. There was no DNA that linked you to the crimes, and a laundry list of witnesses willing to testify that you saved their lives."

Dean brought his chin up. "Witnesses?"

"Uh…," Jackson flipped through his black notebook. "Let's see, there was a Detective Diana Ballard – she had the most to say in the reports – a Lisa Braeden, Becky Rosen, a Deputy Kathleen Hudak, Lori Sorenson, Cassie Robinson, some pretty sketchy guys named Ed Zeddmore and Harry Spengler, though they were pretty adamant that they had a hand in saving _you_…."

"They would," Dean and Sam muttered in unison.

"But, character reports or not," Jackson shifted his weight so that he could take both brothers in at a glance, "the fact remains that you two were found half-dead in a cemetery known for drawing occult activities, you've got _grave desecration_ on your circumstantial rap sheet, we found a body, a shit-load of blood, and this—" he held up the Colt, "at the scene."

Sam had been standing next to Dean, but after Jackson wound up his pitch, he sank down on the edge of Dean's bed.

"So," Jackson shifted dark eyes from one to the other. "Somebody promised me a long story."

Dean didn't look at Sam. He'd told his brother he'd back him in this, and he was willing to let Sam roll out the start of the story. As it was, he was having a hard time keeping his focus on the cop and not letting his mind wander to that moment in Stull when his sense of safety had shattered with a flick of his brother's hand.

"That report is true," Sam started. "From one point of view. I mean…we've dug up graves, and once in awhile…we've broken into places. But only when we had to."

At that, Dean did slide a glance over at his brother. He wasn't off to the best start.

"Sergeant," Sam continued, apparently changing tactics, "you notice all the weird weather out there over the last few weeks?"

Dean looked at Jackson, watching him frown.

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"It didn't seem strange to you, tornadoes in California, hail in Florida, earthquakes in Michigan?"

"You trying to tell me you boys had something to do with all that?" Jackson asked by way of answering.

Sam shook his head. "No. But we had something to do with stopping it."

"You lost me."

"When you looked up our names," Sam said, pushing to his feet, moving to the end of the bed where he had room to pace. Dean noticed that he didn't seem to be able to sit still; it wasn't like Sam to be so restless. "You looked up when we'd lived in Lawrence?"

Jackson nodded. "That I did."

"Anything jump out at you?"

Jackson looked over at Dean, perhaps wondering why he wasn't chiming in. "Your mother's death."

"It was never explained."

"House fire, wasn't it?"

"House fire." Sam's tone was filled with contempt and he looked at Dean, then turned back to face Jackson. "You ever see a report about a house fire where the victim had her belly slashed open and was pinned to the ceiling of her youngest son's bedroom?"

Jackson frowned. "That was never proven. Just an eye-witness account."

"Yeah, our _dad's_ account."

"How about cutting to the chase, kid?"

Sam took a breath. Dean could see his hands were shaking. Adrenalin was skating through Sam with the force of runaway train. He was sweaty and on-edge and if he didn't stop pacing, he was going to make Dean dizzy.

"Here's how it is," Dean cut in, his rough, teeth-clenched voice grabbing the attention of the other occupants in the room. "There's shit in this world you might never see but it's real. Don't matter if you believe it or not; it'll kill you just the same."

Jackson tilted his head, not one to be rattled by vague declarations. "Like…?"

"Spirits, demons, vampires, witches."

Jackson's eyebrows disappeared under his hairline. "What just a goddamned minute," he held up a hand. "You two are telling me all this is about some Stull occult shit?"

Sam shook his head. "It's so much bigger than that."

"Kid, I mighta been born at night, but it wasn't _last_ night," Jackson growled. "You think you can get out of this mess by blaming crazy Stull vagrants, then you—"

"Listen," Dean broke in. "You asked for the whole story. Well, here it is."

He might not have been on board with Sam's _the truth will set you free _approach at first, but now…now he simply didn't care. Something had switched off inside of him, the part of him that instinctively sought to keep the curtain pulled, to not scare the straights. He was hollowed out, empty, and maybe…maybe people _should_ know.

Maybe they _needed_ to.

Besides, he wasn't going to be able to stay upright much longer; he could feel his pulse behind his eyes and his back was spasming so hard he couldn't catch his breath. Sam was watching him, but Dean ignored him and kept his eyes on Jackson. He could hear the rasp increase in his voice as he talked.

"We hunt evil, simple as that. Dig up bones of spirits, salt and burn 'em, send their ass packing. That gun you got there is one of the only things we found that can kill a demon, that's why it was at the cemetery with us."

He gripped the armrest with his left hand, feeling the muscle spasms in his back move up to his neck, making it hard to keep his head level. Dimly, he aware that Sam was standing in the shadow of his damaged vision. He didn't like that he couldn't fully see his brother, but if he took his attention from Jackson now, he'd lose his momentum.

"We been doing this our whole lives," he continued. "Started when a demon killed our mom. Same one killed our Dad. You got every reason to think we're full of shit," he shook his head slowly, "but we got every reason not to give a damn what you think. Those people on your list? They'll tell you what we saved them from. It's out there, it's real. And it wanted to take down the whole fucking world. But we stopped it."

"You're saying…what? Like…zombie apocalypse time?"

"Demons," Sam broke in. He'd moved closer, Dean realized, but he was still standing in the shadow.

"Demons…," Jackson hefted the Colt. "_Demons_ shot you."

Dean heard Sam take a breath and he broke in. "Yes."

There was truth, and then there was _truth_.

Jackson looked at Dean. "And demons beat the shit outta you."

"Yes." Sam was the one to reply this time.

"And I suppose that blood we can't ID at the cemetery is demon blood."

Instinctively, neither brother answered, letting Jackson draw his own conclusion.

"You realize I write any of this up, I look like a freakin' nutcase," Jackson replied.

Dean thought it sounded suspiciously like the man believed them.

"Don't care what you write up," Dean told him, gripping the arm of the chair so tight he felt the tips of his fingers tingle. He was barely staying vertical. "But that's the truth."

"What about the junkyard guy?" Jackson asked. "He a demon, too?"

"No," Sam answered. He stood close enough his pant leg brushed against Dean's fingers, but Dean still couldn't see him. "He was our only friend. He…," Sam swallowed audibly. "He tried to save us."

Jackson was quiet for a bit, his eyes on the two of them. Dean felt the weight of his gaze, judging, assessing, clearly trying to decide if he bought what they were selling. Dean lowered his eyes, unable to keep his head level any longer. He could feel himself shaking; he needed to lie down soon or he was going to keel over.

"We got no reason to bullshit you," Dean said softly, his voice directed at the floor. He could sense Jackson moving closer to them, feel Sam hovering. "We got nothing left, man. We gave everything to stop them…."

"Dean?"

He heard the worry in Sam's voice, felt Sam's warm hand on his shoulder through the thin material of the hospital gown.

"Believe us…don't believe us…," Dean lifted his head imperceptibly – just enough to look up at Jackson's concerned face. "Doesn't change the truth."

He closed his eyes and felt himself tipping forward, his back seizing up and causing him to gasp from the sharp pain of it. He heard Jackson curse and felt someone catch him just before he face-planted on the floor. It wasn't Sam, he knew immediately. For one, the grip was awkward and all-wrong; for another, he felt hands on his face, lifting it up and tapping his cheek.

Sam couldn't touch him anymore, not without his whole world turning inside out.

Noise blossomed around him and Dean felt himself lifted, moved, eased back onto his bed. Words swam around him, some making sense, others overlapping. He heard someone tell him they would give him something for the pain and then a warm sensation slipped beneath his skin, shimmying through his system and at last, _at last_ easing the iron fist digging through his back so that he could take a full breath.

He blinked lazily at Sam standing to the left of his bed, belatedly wishing he had reminded his brother to stand on his right side. He hated seeing Sam half-shadowed as he was.

"Cop still here?" Dean asked, his voice noticeably slurred.

Sam nodded, flicking his eyes to the other side of the bed. Dean rolled his head and met Jackson's dark-eyed stare.

"Bastards did a number on you," Jackson all-but growled. "Tell me…was it worth it?"

Dean frowned. "You like your life, Jackson?" he mumbled. His lips felt numb.

"'Course."

"Got kids? Wife?"

Jackson nodded, his brows pulling together over the bridge of his nose.

"They alive?"

"What kind of question is that?" Jackson barked. "Yeah, they're alive."

"Then it was worth it," Dean sighed.

His eyes slipped closed. This stuff was friggin' amazing. He felt like he was floating; not one thing hurt right now, not even his jigsaw-puzzle jaw. He could hear Sam and Jackson talk across his bed, but he didn't chime in anymore. He couldn't have if he wanted to; his eyes were too heavy, his body uncooperative. He didn't need to anyway, he realized. The truth was out there; they just had to ride it out now.

"You boys been through it, haven't ya?"

Dean wondered why the man refrained from arresting them. If Dean didn't know what he knew, if he hadn't done what he did, he wouldn't believe them. It was unnatural, unreal. And frightening.

"That's an understatement," Sam sighed.

He sounded sad, Dean thought. Sad and tired.

Dean wanted Sam to laugh again. Like, _really_ laugh. He had kind of an awesome laugh: quick and bright with a clarity that was achingly sharp. It was rare, this laugh, but whenever he gifted Dean with genuine joy, Dean knew that they would be okay. _Really_ okay.

"Reading these files…listening to your brother…," Jackson muttered, "I think I might be able to make sense of what happened out at Stull."

Dean wanted to bark out a sarcastic sound of denial. He wanted to sit up and tell the officer that there was no way he'd ever make sense out of the journey that brought them to that cemetery, facing down the Devil himself. No way he'd ever understand the loss along the way, the pain they'd both survived. No way he'd ever understand the sacrifice, the risk, the _knowledge_ that death was waiting for them and there would be no deal, no trade, no way out of this one.

But he didn't have to. His brother did it for him.

"No offense, Jackson," Sam said softly, "but…that's pretty much like looking through the keyhole of a door and saying you can see the whole room."

Dean let the drugs embrace him, hoping as he slid under the black that whatever Jackson decided, he'd at least be able to see the Impala once more.

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**a/n**: We're rolling on - a hospital-free chapter coming up next week. Those of you lamenting Bobby and Cas, I hear you. But with this "what if" scenario, things had to play out differently. Still, if you hang in there for the ride, I think you'll be satisfied. We've got a long way to go yet...

Thanks for reading!


	6. Part One: Chapter 5

**Title: **From Yesterday  
**Fandom:** Supernatural  
**Author**: gaelicspirit  
**Characters:** Dean, Sam, and OCs  
**Disclaimer/Summary:** See Prologue

**Author's Note: **It's Friday! I made it on time this week. *grins* Thanks to all who are reading, following, and especially those who take time to leave me a review. Reviews are a fanfic writer's primary reward (aside from getting to spend time with these great characters), and I truly appreciate yours. I will reply to each as soon as life slows down a smidge.

This is a bit of an emotional chapter, but transitions us from the hospital recovery portion of the story to the 'now what' portion of the story. I hope you enjoy!

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www

"You know, there's stubborn…and then there's your brother."

Rufus Turner's mellow baritone rumbled through the clearing as he dropped the end of a small, felled tree on top of a growing stack, then took a sip of what Sam assumed was whiskey from the smell of his breath, from a pocket flask.

"Yeah, I know," Sam conceded softly. His eyes rested on Dean standing to the side of the funeral pyre they were building for Bobby, listing a bit as fatigue seized up his still-healing back and hip and wondered where he found the drive.

Dean had been dealt a few blows over the last week and a half in the hospital; Sam was personally ready to call a truce with Karma. But Dean just kept going. Saying little, he took the hits and moved forward. Just like he always had.

Well, _almost_ like he always had.

Where before he'd always been in motion, restless eyes checking exits or watching for weapons, now he seemed quiet, contemplative, and oddly…still. He watched everything, his head tilted slightly to the left to compensate for his shadowed vision, and he listened carefully, as if he were waiting to hear something – or maybe some_one_ – specific.

Sam, for his part, hadn't been able to slow down. It was almost as if whatever super-charged his blood into increasing his rate of healing had kick-started his muscles, heart, adrenal glands. When he wasn't sleeping, he could feel his pulse racing. He only felt really calm when he was moving. He hadn't talked to Dean about this observation – he hadn't really talked to Dean about much except healing up and what their next steps needed to be.

"How longs he been out of the hospital again?" Rufus asked.

"A day," Sam replied.

Sam had been officially released from the hospital two days after Jackson's visit with the caveat that he return daily for physical therapy on his shoulder and hand. Dean had been moved out of CCU the same day Sam was released, but luckily – or by design – he'd been assigned a private room with a couch where Sam had been able to sleep.

First order of business had been the Impala.

They had been _beyond_ lucky that the search of the car hadn't revealed the hidden compartment full of weapons in the Chevy's trunk. Sam was pretty sure had that been found, the leniency they'd been shown thus far because of their battered states would have been jerked away so fast it would've left them spinning.

Leaving Dean to bandage changes and the frequent naps he seemed unable to function without, Sam recovered the Impala and with it their stash of fake IDs. He was able to use his "uncle" Eric Bloom's credit card to start payments of their hospital bill, though he knew that scam wasn't going to last forever if they stuck around Lawrence. He was just glad Dean seemed to be the only Blue Oyster Cult mega-fan in town.

After reassuring Dean that all their weapons and supplies were still intact, Sam turned his attention to finding them a temporary home. He couldn't sleep on a hospital couch forever; Dean needed a place to go to recover until they figured out where they would go next.

As Sam made his way around Lawrence, he walked or took the local T-bus. The front windshield of the Impala was shattered from what Sam could only assume had been Dean's body. He knew Dean would want to fix it when he got out, so he parked it at the hospital until he found a small house to rent.

He returned to the hospital to stay with Dean at night. It hadn't escaped Sam's notice that while he might be sleeping better than he ever had, his constant nightmares and visions having temporarily departed, Dean's sleep was restless and when he did drop into REM sleep, his dreams were troubled, often waking him with a violent, desperate gasp for air or inarticulate cry.

Sam sympathized, remembering, _knowing_ what it was like. But he didn't know how to take those from Dean, and he couldn't offer the comfort of touch that had seemed to always soothe Dean. A hand on his arm, against his neck, something that grounded Dean in the present, something that said _you're here._

He'd had to settle with a word or two, his voice reminding Dean he wasn't alone, he wasn't trapped wherever his subconscious worked to convince him he was. He'd call out – often half-asleep when he did so – and Dean would shift to look at him, working to bring his breathing under control, the tension in his body slowly siphoning out until he could once more lay back and make another attempt at sleep.

The day Sam had found a small, two-bedroom house for rent in North Lawrence, right along the river and behind the railroad tracks – both helping to lower the rent considerably – he returned to the hospital to find Dr. Randall examining Dean's hand. The wound had been larger and deeper than his, and the healing tissue was growing back thick and knotted. Sam's bandages had been reduced to wrap just around his hand and wrist; he looked like a boxer who'd been interrupted as he prepared for a fight.

The doctor tested Dean's fingers and Sam saw them flinch, but his brother wasn't able to flex them inward or fully straighten them. They lay in the doctor's hand like Dean had been frozen in the act of waving, fingers slightly curved.

"I'm sorry, Dean," Dr. Randall had said. "The damage was extensive. With time and a lot of therapy, you may be able to close your hand again, but I doubt you are ever going to regain full use of it."

Dean hadn't taken his eyes off his hand, staring at the red, angry, slowly-healing wound.

"Never know, Doc," he'd said, looking up to see Sam standing in the doorway. "I've come back from worse."

_Yeah, but you had angels on your side then, _Sam had mentally countered.

The doctor had wrapped Dean's hand similar to Sam's, checked his healing jaw and wounded back, then left with a promise to return the next day. The entire time the brothers remained silent, the tension in the room like a living thing.

"Dean…," Sam had started when Dr. Randall left.

"I'll use it again, Sam," Dean had told him, his eyes echoing the determination his jaw line would have had it not already been wired in place. "And until then…I'll shoot left-handed."

"How?" Sam had countered. "You've never shot left-handed before!"

"I'll learn."

Dean's reply had left no room for further discussion, but Sam resolved to create a reality where they wouldn't _have_ to shoot. They'd saved the world, stopped Armageddon. Shouldn't they be allowed to stop? To _finally_ stop? Live real lives? Why should his brother have to figure out how to defend and protect with his left hand because he'd given his right to save his brother?

It had to _mean_ something. Everything they'd fought for and against, all of the broken seals and the subterfuge, demon blood and Horsemen…it had to _mean_ something.

Had Sam been able to save them all by falling with Lucifer into the Cage, he thought now, it would have been a large enough sacrifice to repair all the damage he'd caused, all of the bad choices he'd made over the last few years.

But he hadn't. Dean had saved him from that Hell.

And if they kept on hunting, doing the job like nothing had happened, like they literally hadn't given _everything_…then it meant nothing. And Sam couldn't live with that.

Following Dean's instructions, Sam had safe-guarded their newly rented house with sigils – both anti-demon and anti-angel, just in case – for when they both left the hospital. But he really only did it to appease his brother. Since Stull, he'd not seen one set of demon-enhanced onyx eyes or encountered one android-like angel.

The angels had left, he was sure of it; with Michael and the other Archangels gone, they had no leaders and, he argued, the demons had no direction without Lucifer or Azazel.

"Crowley's still out there," Dean had pointed out to him one afternoon as they'd slowly counted laps around the hospital floor.

The doctor had encouraged this, even though the first few times triggered a string of curses from Dean's mouth that had Sam raising his eyebrows, impressed. Dean couldn't stand fully on his own yet; he'd been given a walker to help take the brunt of his weight, but not only was that a huge blow to his ego, he hadn't been able to grip it with his wounded right hand. He'd settled for a crutch on one side and Sam on the other.

"He's out there making deals, wrecking lives…and with Lucifer out of the picture, who knows what he'll try. You know damn well we can't turn our backs on those bastards."

"Maybe they've given up," Sam had tried.

"Yeah, and maybe I'll start singing opera," Dean had retorted.

"I haven't seen _anything_, Dean," Sam had whispered imperatively. "No unusual lightning storms, no cattle mutilation, not even a whiff of sulfur."

"Just because they aren't _here_ doesn't mean they're gone."

"It _could_," Sam had pressed. "Dean, we went most of our lives without knowing that angels could inhabit vessels and interact with humans," he'd reminded his brother, "and until Dad found the Colt, we'd only encountered _one_ demon."

"They were still out there, Sam."

"So, what are you gonna do – summon a demon just to prove they're still around?" Dean's silence had sent Sam's heart rate sky-high. "Dude. You are _not_ going to summon a demon."

"No," Dean had acquiesced, albeit reluctantly.

"Good." Sam had exhaled, trying to still his suddenly shaking hands. He'd just started to open his mouth to extend the ban on summoning powerful beings to include angels, when Dean spoke up.

"And what about the other stuff that we know is out there, Sam? Witches, spirits, vamps?" Dean had stopped walking, turning to face his brother, one hand gripping the crutch. His bruises and stitches stood out in stark contrast to the white of his face, the heat in his eyes. "We stopped _one_ thing, Sam. We didn't stop _everything_."

"Yeah, but—"

"There's always gonna be evil in the world," Dean had all-but growled, offering a small smile to the nurse who'd glanced their way at his words. Waiting until she moved on, he'd turned his attention back to Sam. "And it's our job to stop it."

"Yeah, well, I want to change careers," Sam had spat at him, leaving the argument unfinished in the hallway of the hospital as he continued to build the framework of a life for them in Lawrence until Dean recovered.

Sam broke from his memories and grabbed up a log to add to the pyre.

Rufus stayed where he was, his bright, dark eyes watching the brothers' every move. Dean slowly wandered in the opposite direction, his memories of Bobby wrapping around him so thick Sam could almost see them. It was crazy, this much activity one day after spending three weeks the hospital, but the morgue had held Bobby all this time, waiting for them to claim the body. They weren't going to wait longer.

"You gonna tell me what went down at that cemetery?" Rufus asked him, pocketing the flask and grabbing the other end of a heavy log Sam was dragging.

Sam had skipped out on physical therapy the last two days so that he could chop the wood necessary for the base of the pyre. The ache in his shoulder seemed to increase as the hours wore on, reminding him that while he healed more quickly than he might normally have, he'd been damaged pretty significantly.

He wasn't meant to swing an axe with a still-healing hole in his shoulder. He'd ended up downing four ibuprofen every six hours, but the activity and motion had felt good. Motion felt good. Being active felt good. Doing something _productive_ that wasn't supporting Dean as he worked to rebuild his strength, or wasn't trying to avoid the topic of hunting – even if the underlying purpose was morbid – felt good.

"I told you when I called you about Bobby," Sam replied. "Big show-down, Lucifer versus Michael. They lost, we won. Bobby was killed."

"And someone beat the living shit out of your brother," Rufus added, tossing the log up on top of the pyre and turning to study Sam with a calculated gaze. Uncomfortable under the scrutiny, Sam reached for his shoulder, rubbing out the ache. "What happened to your shoulder, Sam?"

Sam frowned. "How'd you know I hurt my shoulder?"

"Don't bullshit a bullshitter." Rufus' eyebrow bounced up. "You think I haven't been watching you?"

Sam sighed. "Bobby shot me."

Rufus pulled his head back, clearly not expecting that. "Why the hell would _Bobby_ shoot you?"

"Because," Sam sighed, looking out across the clearing at Dean as he limped along the edge of the tree line, his eyes on the ground. "I was beating the living shit out of my brother."

"_You_?"

Sam ran his scarred left hand through his hair. "Well…Lucifer. Using me."

Rufus squared off his stance, facing Sam. "Kid, you called me a two days ago, said my oldest friend in the world was dead and you wanted my help to bury him."

Sam nodded.

"You might've mentioned you two had something to do with his getting killed."

Sam rubbed his face. It was almost easier when they were alone. Remembering Rufus and calling him for help had seemed like a godsend at the time – until he realized that once he started telling the truth, he wasn't going to be able to stop with just the local police.

He started quietly, telling Rufus as quickly as he could about Zachariah and Adam, about Lucifer, about their destiny and resisting what had seemed like the inevitable, about the Horsemen's rings. And then he got to Detroit.

"Let me guess," Rufus muttered, watching as Dean started making his way back to the pyre, a few pieces of wood cradled in his arms. "Dean couldn't stick to the plan."

Sam shook his head. "The minute Lucifer took me out of that room, Dean's choice was made. And Bobby knew Dean was going to get killed trying to save me." Sam toed the ground at the base of the wood pile. "Dean was always Bobby's favorite," he said with a grudging smile. "Bobby couldn't just let him go off to get killed anymore than Dean could let me."

He said it without malice, without pain. He knew Bobby had loved him…but the truth was Bobby had loved Dean more. And he was strangely okay with that.

"How bad?" Rufus asked, his voice pitched low, his eyes on Dean.

Sam looked up at his brother. The swelling of his face was almost gone, the stitches were out, the bruising having faded from dark purple to a greenish-yellow, but Dean would always bear scars from that day. A thin pink line paralleled his left eyebrow and one formed a crescent below his left eye. Another ran in a slim, L-shaped curve along his left jaw, near his ear, and several small ones peppered his lips, though Sam had to be close Dean to see those.

Sam knew his brother hadn't regained his partially impaired sight; Dean never said anything, but Sam could tell by the way he tilted his head or shifted his body that he was ensuring he could see as much around him as possible. Sam had started to make sure he was always standing to Dean's right; watching his brother shift so that he could see him clearly just reminded Sam of why he had to do so.

While outwardly Dean was visibly healing, Sam knew there was a lot broken inside as well. The concussion still forced him to sleep longer during the day, the nightmares never really allowing him true rest. His hip was repaired enough that he hadn't been forced to take a crutch with him when leaving the hospital and the limp would go away in time, but Sam expected the pained grimaces as Dean straightened his back to continue as the screwed-together bones adjusted to his activity.

He'd get the wiring off his jaw in a couple of weeks, which would be good because he'd lost weight living off of protein shakes. Dean's cheek bones were prominent, his eyes – already large to being with – were beginning to take over his face, and Sam had noticed the clothes he'd brought to the hospital hung on him.

"Y'know," Sam said by way of answering. "I think he could deal with all of it…but his hand is going to be tough to get past."

"I see you have a matching one," Rufus nodded toward Sam's still-bandaged hand.

Sam nodded, holding his left hand up and flexing his fingers, curling them into a loose fist. "It's still tender, but I'll heal." He kicked at a clump of leaves. "Dean's never gonna be able to use his hand again. Can't even move his fingers."

"How the hell did Lucifer manage to hurt you both like that?"

"He didn't." Dean's voice startled Sam. He hadn't realized his brother had gotten so close. "I did it."

Rufus drew his head back again. Sam felt slightly sorry for the older hunter. He was getting hit by a few punches this afternoon.

"You? You destroyed your own hand?"

Dean lifted a shoulder, letting the wood in his arms roll off and to the ground at Sam's feet. "Had to."

"You want to elaborate?"

Sam watched Dean, wondering what he'd say. Since the day in the hospital when he'd told him about the amulet finding the power of God in the righteous man, they hadn't brought it up again, though Sam thought about it every day. About how the universe set them against each other from the start, readying them for the ultimate sibling showdown.

"Later, maybe," Dean conceded. "After a helluva lot of alcohol."

"You gonna drink it through a straw?" Rufus challenged sarcastically, eyeing Dean.

Dean slid his eyes over, the expression in them challenging Rufus to push him further, see what happens. "If I have to."

"Guys, it's getting dark," Sam pointed out, legitimately worried the two hunters would come to blows over whether Dean could drink alcohol with his jaw wired shut. "I think Bobby's waited long enough."

"Yeah, okay," Rufus grumbled.

While Dean saturated the pyre with fuel, Rufus and Sam returned to Rufus' truck and pulled Bobby's body from the bed. He'd been wrapped tightly in sheets; for that, Sam was glad. He'd gone with Rufus to claim the body, but had asked the older hunter to take care of the wrapping. He couldn't bear to see his friend in a bag.

They carried Bobby between them through the trees to the clearing, the rising moonlight playing tricks on Sam's eyes. He was suddenly, viciously reminded of another wooded area, another body. He looked down at his burden and saw Dean's torn, pale face instead of Bobby's shroud-wrapped head. With a strangled cry he stumbled to a stop, barely able to keep himself from dropping the body.

"Sam?" Rufus' confused voice filtered through the grim, pale light filtering through the murky darkness surrounding them. "You okay, there, kid?"

He wasn't okay. He was shaking.

He searched the clearing for Dean, but all he saw was the pile of wood. They hadn't burned Dean, he reminded himself; they'd buried him. Buried him against Bobby's wishes and because Sam had insisted. Buried him because Sam _knew_ he'd find a way to bring his brother back.

And then an angel had hauled Dean out of Hell.

"Sam." Rufus repeated, irritated now.

Sam ignored him. He needed to see Dean. He continued to search the darkened clearing until another light sent a soft glow over everything in Sam's eyesight: a torch.

Dean stepped into the path where the tree line broke, legs parted, shoulders squared, torch held aloft, the firelight hitting his eyes and shadowing the scars on his face – the scars left by Sam's fists. Sam took a breath, meeting his brother's bright eyes and nodded once.

"Yeah, I'm okay," he finally answered, finding the will to push himself forward into the clearing.

Lifting Bobby's body on top of the pyre, Rufus and Sam stepped back, nodding at Dean. Solemnly, as if feeling the weight of their collective loss with each step, Dean approached the pyre. Sam heard him take a shaky breath before he touched the torch to the wood in several places, making sure the flames caught before stepping back.

They'd chosen a place in the woods along the Kansas River where they'd be unlikely to be found and where there was a wide enough clearing sparks from the fire wouldn't catch the trees around them. The air had grown cold, autumn surrendering slowly to winter, though snow had yet to fall.

The month they lost in the hospital had changed the world around them: damage from earthquakes, fires, and floods had been cleaned up and repaired. People had moved on to the next Internet headline, forgetting that Armageddon had almost been upon them merely weeks ago.

As the flames caught the body, Sam took a breath, drawn from the memory of burying Dean to the memory of his father's funeral pyre and the ache that had lodged at the base of his throat, spilling down his face in hot tears of loss, making each breath an effort in will. Dean had stood silently beside him that night, his entire body tense, much like he was now.

"Bobby asked me something," Dean said suddenly, startling Sam out of his suffocating memories.

"When?" Sam said, looking over at his brother.

Dean stood leaning to his right, taking the weight off his left hip. His hands were loose at his side, his jaw unnaturally tight from the efforts to mend it. His eyes were on the fire, but Sam could see they were bright even in profile. They seemed to shine from the inside out; if he didn't know better, Sam would have thought it was the amulet light echoing through Dean once more.

"Back in Detroit," Dean said. "After…," he lifted a shoulder, "we talked about the plan." He took a slow, shallow breath. "He asked me what I was afraid of. Losing? Or losing you?"

Sam swallowed hard, needing to know the answer. Dean didn't look at him; he kept his eyes on the fire and didn't seem to care that Rufus was standing on the other side of Sam, hearing every word.

"See, he knew you'd beat the Devil or die trying. He knew you wouldn't give up, Sam. He told me how you pulled those people out of that warehouse, going back again and again."

Sam couldn't tear his eyes away from Dean's profile.

"All I could think about when he asked me that," Dean continued, "was Cold Oak. Seeing you die."

"I know what you mean," Sam managed around the lump in his throat.

His world had ended that night in Indiana the moment Lilith's power had vanished, freeing him from the wall, and he'd crawled over to gather Dean's broken body into his arms.

"I told you that watching out for you was my job. It's who I am." Dean shook his head, his eyes reflecting the spiking firelight. "But Bobby, man, he knew _your_ job was different. And he believed in you, Sam. He knew without a doubt that you would give everything you had to keep us all safe."

"I learned it from you," Sam whispered. He hadn't expected to say that, but the moment it was out, he knew it was true.

"I didn't go to Stull because I didn't think you'd do your job," Dean said, finally looking over at Sam. "I went there because…," he pressed his lips together, the tiny pink scars puckering slightly, "I knew you _would_. And I…I couldn't live with you dead. I couldn't do it. So…I wasn't going to let you die alone."

Sam felt a tear slip past the barricades of his lashes and he looked toward the pyre, Bobby's body nothing more than white-hot flames.

"You were always his favorite, y'know," Sam said, his voice choked. "That's why he was there. He loved you too much to not at least _try_ to fight for you." When Dean didn't reply, Sam looked askance. "You need to know that, Dean. Someone fought for you as hard as you fought for me."

"I know." Dean's reply was raspy with emotion.

They stood quietly for a moment, the silence broken only by the snap of the flames as they ate through the wood. Sam swallowed the well of emotion that was doing its best to strangle him. He could feel Dean wearing thin next to him, the effort of staying on his feet for this long starting toward too much.

"Bobby," Rufus said finally, his voice pitched low. "You were a goddamned cantankerous son of a bitch. But," he pulled out his pocket flask, "you were a damned fine hunter – even if I did teach you everything you knew – and a good friend." Sam heard Rufus clear his throat. "World lost a light."

Sam glanced over and saw the older hunter take a drink from the silver flask, then cap it and toss it into the high flames, sparks rising from the impact and slipping into the inky black of the surrounding night.

"_B'gan Ayden t'hay m'nuchato_." Rufus began to recite softly in Hebrew.

Sam watched him with surprise. He honestly couldn't remember if he'd known Rufus was Jewish. The emotion tightening the older hunter's eyes and the rough edge to his voice as he continued to speak exposed how much this loss truly impacted him.

"_L__a-chayn Ba-al Harachamim yas-tiray-hu b'sayter k'nafav l'olamim,v'yitz-ror bitz-ror hacha-yim et nishmato_._" _

When Rufus seemed unable to continue his prayer, Dean pulled out a stained John Deer hat from the pocket of his coat. Sam had no idea where he got it; most likely from the trunk of the Impala. Dean kept almost everything he valued in there. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed it onto the fire.

"Bye, Bobby," Dean whispered as it caught fire. "See ya later."

Sam took a breath. He had no memento, nothing to throw on the fire. But he needed to say goodbye, too.

"You were our last family," Sam said to the flames. "I can't remember _not_ knowing you. It felt…," he searched for the right word, "safe. With as much as this world tried to screw us over…it felt _safe_, knowing you were out there. You watched our backs."

Sam looked down, listening to the pop of the wood succumbing to the heat of the flames, knowing how it felt to be consumed by such heat, such _power_. He couldn't look at the light anymore.

They stood three abreast, in silence, the light from the flames washing over them, listening as the fire emptied the world of their friend and mentor. Sam hadn't realized he'd started to shiver until he felt Dean's hand on his arm, turning him away from the fire. Dimly, he heard his brother say something to Rufus about waiting until the fire was out and coming back, but he couldn't fully focus.

Too many memories, too many deaths, too many funeral pyres and graves, too much loss.

By the time he felt himself pushed gently down onto the bed of Rufus' pickup truck, he was outright shaking. He'd never had a panic attack before, but this was starting to feel pretty damn close to one. He tried to wrap his arms around his body, but his shoulder protested its over-use and he caught his breath at the base of his throat. He didn't register that Dean had managed to leverage himself up on the tailgate next to him until he heard his brother's pained hiss.

"We goin' somewhere?" Sam asked, momentarily confused.

"No." Dean leaned against him, his shoulder pressed against Sam's, the weight and warmth familiar.

"How come you climbed up here?" Sam was starting to calm down, his shivering slowly lessening, his breath steadying.

"Just…'cause," Dean replied, staying close, seeming to instinctively know just how to balance Sam.

They sat in the dark, saying nothing, for a long time.

"I'm gonna miss him," Sam said finally into the quiet of the night.

"Yeah."

"And Cas," Sam offered.

"Yeah."

"What're we gonna do now, Dean?" Sam asked.

Dean looked over at him and Sam thought he saw that light in his brother's eyes once more. He saw the scars, the unnatural tightness to his jaw, but the light seemed to cancel those out. He was about to say something about it when he heard Rufus approach.

"We're down to coals," Rufus announced.

Sam saw Dean nod. He slipped off the tailgate and reached up for Dean's elbow, easing him down. The listing he'd seen before had turned into a full-on lean and Sam stayed next to him, helping Dean back to the clearing as they buried the ashes of their friend, saying one final goodbye.

www

"Is this really the best idea?"

"Probably not."

Sam sighed, watching as Dean pressed the open bottle to his scarred lips and tipped it back. The only source of calories and nutrition he'd been able to intake since waking in the hospital was in the form of protein shakes or pureed meals. He knew Dean was sick of liquefied food, of straws, of nothing substantial…nothing _normal_.

Drinking was normal.

The very act of holding the opened bottle of beer, letting the hops and barley smell waft over them was almost therapeutic. Dean continuously refused to take the prescribed amount of pain meds; Sam wasn't so much worried about mixing medication with alcohol as he was just having Dean drink alcohol at all. It had been weeks - a forced detox from the liquid crutch he'd watched his brother need more often than not since he'd returned from Hell.

Smuggling a couple of beers into the hospital wasn't the kind of thing Sam wanted to get jailed for. They'd been fortunate that Sergeant Jackson hadn't yet reached back out to them to follow up on his initial report. Sam hadn't been looking to give someone else a reason to be suspicious of them.

Watching as Dean attempted to settle back, his face tightening with a grimace, Sam crossed from the small living room to the even smaller kitchen, grabbed a cloth-covered rice bag from one of the sparsely outfitted cabinets and tossed it into the microwave. The house had come partially furnished: all kitchen appliances, a small table, two chairs, a couch, a coffee table, and a bed and small dresser in each of the two bedrooms.

Neither of them needed much and this house fit that bill. A roof over their heads, beds to sleep in, and a sturdy lock. Their only decorations right now were the subtle, unobtrusive sigils Sam had obligingly painted on the doors, windows, floor, and ceiling. All he'd needed to do was find a TV at a second-hand store, and they were set.

There was no way Dean was living anywhere for long without a TV.

When the microwave beeped, Sam brought the rice bag into the living room, balancing it on his bandaged hand to protect the other from the heat. Tipping his chin up at Dean, he helped his brother lean forward, then eased the rice bag along his Dean's wounded ribs. Dean settled back against the heat, the line of pain between his brows smoothing.

Sam decided to let the beer go; it wasn't every night they buried a friend.

"So you two going to tell me how it is you each looks like half a boxer?" Rufus said.

Sam knew the older hunter had been watching them; it was only natural that he'd wonder what mess they'd gotten Bobby into. Sam ignored him for the time being, though, helping Dean lift his leg and settle his foot on the coffee table, getting some of the weight off his hip.

They hadn't quite gotten their routine down; they weren't used to having this much space, for one. And up until yesterday afternoon, Dean had been in the hospital. The first night in the house had been too quiet; Sam hadn't slept much and he knew for a fact Dean had laid awake until the sunlight cut through the dusty windows of his room. But Sam knew his brother – knew he wouldn't admit to pain, knew he wouldn't ask for help, and was thankful he knew exactly how to fix both at the moment.

"It's complicated," Dean grumbled, sipping a bit more of his beer.

"I got all night," Rufus returned, putting his back to the wall across from Dean and sliding down to sit on the floor. The pull-cord to the stained Levolor blinds hung over his shoulder and Sam watched him absently twist it around his fingers.

"You're not going to believe a lot of it," Sam warned him, sitting on the other end of the couch from Dean.

Rufus lifted a wiry eyebrow. "You let me judge that, why don't you?"

Sam shared a glance with Dean, who tipped the throat of his bottle in concession, and began.

"Okay, so I told you about us being Lucifer and Michael's vessels," Sam said, watching Rufus nod. "I don't remember much after Detroit. I remember drinking gallons of demon blood, heading up to that room, watching the bastard draw symbols on a frosted-over window…," he shrugged.

"I never figured we had a chance on beating the Devil," Dean broke in, his voice like a vice of pain catching everyone in the room inside it. Sam frowned, staring at the green braided rug that covered the worn wooden floor. He didn't know if he wanted to hear this part. Living it was hard enough. "But I wasn't going to just…go off and live my life after turning Sam over to him."

"Even though you promised to do just that," Sam mumbled.

Dean shot a look at him, his eyes speaking volumes, his lips pressed flat against any retort. It hadn't been a fair promise, Sam knew. It hadn't been one he'd been able to keep, either, when Dean went to Hell. But he'd genuinely wanted Dean to have something he'd never had: a regular life.

"So it was suicide by fallen angel, that it?" Rufus grumbled.

Sam looked over sharply at Dean. _I couldn't live with you dead…._

Dean had had no soul to trade, not this time. He'd had no way to win; he had gone there to die alongside Sam. Dean wasn't looking at either of them. His eyes were somewhere on the middle distance, cast back to that night and his decision.

"Maybe," he conceded. "I didn't really have a plan until…," he paused and Sam watched him turn his wounded hand over in his lap, palm up. "Cas gave me an ace in the hole."

"Which was…."

"My amulet."

Rufus frowned, not following.

Sam spoke up. "When we were kids, I gave Dean this amulet for Christmas. I got it from Bobby, actually. I wanted something for Dad, but…well, Dad didn't show up that Christmas."

Rufus tilted his head. "You got it from Bobby?"

"Yeah," Sam nodded. "I just told him I wanted something special to give as a gift. He never said anything when he saw it on Dean."

"Was it…brass? Head a horned bull?" Rufus asked.

Dean brought his head up. "Yeah. How the hell'd you know that?"

"I'll be damned."

"What?" Sam demanded.

Rufus looked up at Dean. "_Hero with a Thousand Faces_," he muttered.

Dean glanced at Sam, confusion clear in his expression.

"You boys ever hear of Joseph Campbell?" Rufus asked them.

"He a hunter?" Dean asked.

Sam shook his head. "He's a writer," he informed his brother.

"The hero's journey," Rufus continued. "Bobby and I found that amulet…hell, a long-assed time ago. If I remember right, it was supposed to be for protection…symbolized the lessons the human hero would learn on his path through life." Rufus shook his head, a half-grin reshaping his mouth. "Never knew what the old coot had done with it. Shoulda realized it would find its way to you."

"Castiel thought it would help him find God," Dean said quietly.

"I take it we're speaking literally," Rufus muttered, tenting his legs and resting his arms on his bent knees.

Dean nodded. "It didn't. Was supposed to burn bright in God's presence, but…nada."

"So Dean threw the amulet away," Sam continued. "But…Cas fished it out of the trash."

Rufus sat quietly, listening.

"He gave it back to me just before I left for Stull," Dean said. "Told me he was wrong. It wouldn't find God…it would find the _power_ of God. In the righteous man."

"Which…is…you?" Rufus' eyebrows puckered.

Dean took a swig of his beer. Sam waited. He needed to know this part, too. He needed to know why he had been destined to drown in blood while his brother glowed with Heavenly light. What had he done so _wrong_ that he got the dark side of their story?

"I sold my soul," Dean continued, still not looking at either of them, his voice growing rougher as he peeled back more layers of the truth. "And I went to Hell. And I…broke down there."

Rufus said nothing. Sam couldn't remember if the older hunter had known this about them or not, but the quiet way he let Dean's ragged voice roll over him said a lot about how much he accepted as truth.

"When that happened, the first seal was opened," Dean said, taking another sip from his bottle before continuing, "and this shit storm started."

Everyone sat quietly for a moment as Dean gathered his strength to continue. Sam saw he was fading, his energy slipping from his pores, but he couldn't stop him now.

"I was the…_righteous man," _Dean practically spat out the words, "who started all of this. Cas said I was the only one who could stop it." He glanced briefly at Sam before dropping his eyes once more. "I thought…he meant stop Lucifer from rising."

"He didn't?" Sam asked, trying to get ahead of the story, discover the punch line before Dean revealed it.

"He meant…stop it _all_. Put Lucifer in that Cage and stop Heaven from going to war."

"And…the amulet was your way to do that," Rufus said, weaving the pieces together.

"The amulet," Dean said, shifting uncomfortably, "and Sam."

"Me?" Sam shot his brother a look, surprised.

Dean closed his eyes, pain lining his face. "Had a long time to think about this," he said, his voice low and gravely. Sam found himself leaning forward, needing to catch every word. "The only way the amulet was going to work was if I _believed_ it would." He opened his eyes, the side of his mouth pulled back in a twisted, painful smile. "I don't believe in a fuckin' thing in this world…except Sam."

Sam swallowed, feeling a lead weight in his belly.

"Only way I was coulda done what Cas said I could…was if Sam had done what he did."

"You mean…if Sam went to Stull," Rufus concluded.

Dean nodded.

"Dude…I gave in," Sam said, pulling in a ragged breath. "I said yes."

Dean shook his head slowly, not looking at his brother. "You were strong enough to take control of the _Devil_, Sam." He glanced Sam's way and the emotion tucked into his eyes took Sam's breath away. "Don't you _ever_ forget that."

Sam blinked, feeling off-balance. He'd almost forgotten Rufus was there, listening.

"If it had been anyone else in that cemetery," Dean continued, "I'd have let the battle play on, dealt with the fall-out."

"That's not true," Sam protested.

"Yeah," Dean nodded, looking away once more. "It is."

Sam ran a shaking hand through his hair.

"But you were there, and I…I couldn't let you go through that alone, so I showed up and I…," Dean took a trembling breath, "I believed."

Sam saw his brother's face fold, emotion so raw it turned his words bloody.

"I believed in God and the angels and Heaven and Hell and every year of pain and all the shit I did and all the shit I wanted to do and every moment with Dad and you and…I just…I grabbed you and hung on."

Sam saw a tear slip from Dean's lashes and trace a path down his cheek to find a home at the corner of his mouth. Dean sniffed, dragging his left hand carefully down his bruised face, banishing the tear.

"It was hot," he said, looking at his bandaged hand. "Cas was right about that. Damn thing sure as hell did heat up. Felt like it was going to burn up the whole world and take us both with it."

"What happened to it?" Sam asked, surprised to find his own voice choked with emotion.

Dean huffed. "Dunno. Burned out."

"Or it fused," Rufus said quietly.

Sam glanced at the older hunter. "Fused?"

"Metal gets hot enough, it melts and fuses with whatever it's touching."

Sam looked at his hand; he'd seen his wound. There hadn't been any metal particles in his skin. He glanced at Dean's hand, bandaged and resting uselessly in his brother's lap. The light and heat had been so intense it could have incinerated the amulet. But what if Rufus had a point?

The absence of the angel markings on their ribs, the light in Dean's eyes…what if the amulet was a part of them? A part of…Dean?

"It's gone," Dean was saying, his rough voice slipping under the silence. "Used up."

"And all you had to do was…believe?" Rufus asked. "Like it was some kind of…ruby slipper?"

"There was this phrase," Dean revealed quietly. "I had to say it in Enochian. Lonsa el balt cnila."

Sam couldn't remember Dean speaking those words–or any words for that matter. He could only remember the screaming: inside of him, from him, all around him.

"Any idea what that means?" Rufus asked.

Dean exhaled a shaky breath. "The power of righteousness is safe in the blood." He said it as though the words were tattooed on the inside of his eyelids, as though he said them in his sleep. "I had the Cracker Jack prize on me the whole time. Just didn't have the magic words."

The room breathed around them, waiting.

"There's more to it than that, Dean," Sam said quietly. When Dean didn't reply, Sam looked up at his brother. "You said if it had been anyone else in that cemetery, you'd have let the world burn…but, man, if it had been anyone other than _you_…the amulet wouldn't have worked."

And then there was the connection – the fact that he could see inside his brother whenever he touched Dean's skin. Something had happened to them in that graveyard, something more profound than banishing Archangels to the Pit.

Sam just didn't know what…and he didn't know who to ask.

"You gave it to me, Sam," Dean muttered, his lips barely moving.

Sam lifted a shoulder, his eyes on his brother. "Yeah, well…I got it from Bobby."

"Holy hell," Rufus murmured suddenly, surprising both brothers. "It's like _The Da Vinci Code_. Except it makes sense."

Sam found his mouth pulling up in the expected grin, but it faded quickly.

Rufus was staring at a crack in the wood floor. "Bobby wanted to save you," he said quietly. Slowly raising his eyes, Sam watched as the older hunter looked first at him, then rested his gaze on Dean. "I guess, when you think about it…he did just that."

Dean didn't move. He was almost eerily still.

Sam, though, felt an almost suffocating need to escape. There had been so much pushing at them for so long…so many things pulling them toward decisions that everyone else had wanted them to make. When they'd made their choice…there at the end, facing one another, both beaten, barely on their feet, but still standing…they'd chosen each other.

They'd chosen family – not saving the world. It hadn't been about demon blood or righteousness, but about believing in _each other_. The realization made him dizzy.

He pushed to his feet, needing to move, to pace. He felt that tremble of energy shift through him again as it seemed to every time he got a little uncertain or anxious. He could _not_ sit still and think through things anymore. If he didn't move he felt like he'd explode.

"I'm gonna go grab some air," he muttered, stepping over Dean's outstretched leg to get to the door. He didn't wait to hear if anyone protested his departure.

Letting the door bang shut behind him, Sam started walking, directionless. He barely heard the train whistle sound over the roaring in his ears. The night was cold, crisp, stars peppering the moonless sky. The constant wind was gentle, almost warm in the chill of the night. He could smell winter coming; a kind of decaying scent, hitting a pause button on life and drawing breath from the world around him.

He thought he'd found the balance he needed; thought he was doing okay with the change in their reality. The Devil was gone, the angels were quiet, he and Dean had made it out of the ultimate showdown by the skin of their teeth. They were alive.

But at what cost?

His boots clumped heavily along the pavement as he followed the deserted road toward where he knew it cut off toward the Kansas River. His heart slammed painfully in his chest. He could almost feel it clamoring to get free. During the weeks Dean had been in the hospital, Sam found himself able to almost believe in this idea of a possible normal life.

A life where they…got jobs. Made friends. Had a future without guns, lore, pain, angels…and demons.

He didn't thirst for demon blood as he had when he'd gone a few weeks without it before; then again, he'd been _using_ it at the time. Burning through it as he sent demons to Hell. He hadn't so much as smelled sulfur since Stull.

Maybe he was right. Maybe it was over. Maybe he didn't need to worry about the blood lust because there would be no need for him to even see if the same ability he'd possessed before was still present.

But what if it wasn't? What if _Dean_ was right? What if the Apocalypse had been just one more battle? What if the amulet had super-charged them in some way? What if the fact that they were no longer protected from detection brought the angels down on them? What if that power Dean had harnessed dogged him just as the demon blood lust had pursued Sam?

Sam stopped at the river, grabbing up a stick and throwing it into the brownish, flowing water with a hard enough thrust his shoulder throbbed in protest. He gripped it, cradling his arm against his chest. Starlight tripped across the ripples on the water, dazzling his eyes. The clack of a train barreling down the tracks drew his attention from his screaming thoughts.

"I won't let it," he said out loud.

He wouldn't let it be _just_ a battle. It had been _the_ battle. The one to end them all. They didn't have to fight anymore. And as for the amulet, Dean losing use of his hand was enough of an impact as far as Sam was concerned. He _would not_ let it affect his brother further. That was over.

Taking a breath, Sam carded his hair, hanging his hand on the back of his neck. Now he just needed to convince Dean. Somehow make his stubborn brother believe that there was more to the world than hunting. More than doing the freakin' job.

There was more than darkness and death and killing. There was light. Life. Possibilities.

Most of his nervous energy spent by his trek to the river, Sam turned around and headed back to the small house, the cold night growing darker as he drew closer to the soft light emanating from beneath the curtains covering the living room windows. He hadn't realized how cold he'd gotten until he saw their house.

He noticed that the Impala sat alone on the street as he opened the door.

"Where's Rufus?" he said, skin prickling a bit by the warmth of the interior.

Dean was exactly as he left him: leg propped up on table, body tucked into the corner of the couch. He looked as if he couldn't have moved if the house had been on fire.

"Left," Dean mumbled, exhaustion bleeding through the sound. "One too many hits."

Sam nodded, locking the door behind him. "He coming back?"

"Maybe." Dean shook his head, pressing his lips together. "Don't know. Said something about looking into a few things. Wrote down the angel spell before he left." He closed his eyes and let out a long, slow sigh.

"You tired?"

Dean nodded.

"Need some help?"

Dean nodded again.

Sam stepped close to the couch and took the empty beer bottle from Dean's loose fingers, then set it on the floor. Helping Dean shift his foot to the ground, Sam ignored the low hiss as the motion rotated Dean's hip. Without thinking, he reached out to grab Dean's good hand and pull him from the couch. The moment his hand grasped his brother's, his vision went white.

He could suddenly hear Dean calling him, screaming his name with a desperate pain that pierced the white shroud like a blade. It wasn't _his_ Dean. It wasn't _now_ Dean. But the anguish in Dean's voice…the utter _loss_ he felt at the sound of his own name…. It drove him to his knees. He felt himself hit the floor, thirsty for breath, and tore his hand from Dean's reflexive grasp.

"Shit," he gasped, blinking sweat from his eyes and staring at his white-faced brother.

"What?" Dean asked, eyes wide and worried. "What did you see?"

"Y-you…," Sam swallowed, falling from his knees to his hip, then shifting back to his butt. "You don't see it, do you?"

"I don't see anything," Dean shook his head helplessly.

"Goddamn," Sam breathed, pressing the back of his hand against his upper lip. "I must look pretty freakin' weird, then."

"No, I mean…," Dean swallowed, reaching up to rub at the scar that framed the edge of his jaw. "I don't see _anything_. Nothing. Black."

Sam blinked at him. "Nothing?"

Dean lifted a shoulder helplessly.

"What happens when I let go?"

"Curtain lifts."

"Jesus," Sam rubbed his eyes with the heel of his right hand.

"I feel it, though."

"Feel what?"

Dean frowned, as if wary of exposing something. "Like…an electrical shock. On steroids."

Sam stared at him. "Well, that's super disturbing."

"Ya think?"

Sam looked away. He reached up to drag a hand down his face, thinking. "We're gonna have to figure this out."

Dean was quiet a moment. "Yeah." He shifted against the back of the couch with a low groan. "Later."

Sam pushed to his feet, wavering a bit with the head rush. "Let me help you."

"Careful," Dean warned as Sam reached for him again.

Sam grasped his brother's bicep, making sure to keep a layer of clothing between their skin, and heaved Dean up from the couch. Dean gripped Sam's shirt with his left hand, holding them both in place a moment as he slowly straightened, his breath adjusting in miniscule increments. Sam felt the tension running through his brother's body as he fought against the pain in his back.

"Easy," Sam murmured, waiting as Dean's hand tightened convulsively on his forearm.

His brother's hand was hot enough Sam could feel it through his clothes and the breath that cut a path through the quiet of the house had ragged edges that caught on Sam's conscience.

"You want a pain pill tonight?" Sam asked.

"No."

"How 'bout you take one anyway?"

Dean sagged, leaning against Sam's shoulder. Sam's heart broke a bit at that. He needed to get Dean better, fast. Otherwise, each day was just another reminder of what he'd almost allowed happen.

"Fine," Dean conceded.

Sam guided his brother to the closer of the two bedrooms, easing him down on the narrow bed. He knelt and unlaced Dean's boots, then helped his brother pull his shirts free from over his bandaged hand. After Sam gave him the pill to swallow – accompanied by a pull of water from a bottle with a straw – Dean waved away his help with the jeans, slowly shifting himself back to his pillow, air puffing through stiff lips as he lay back down.

"You gonna be able to sleep?"

"Who the hell knows," Dean whispered, eyes closed.

"I'll be in the next room," Sam told him, staring down at his brother's form, bothered by how much smaller Dean appeared.

"I got it, Sam."

"I'm just saying."

"Dude. Helicopter Mom's got nothin' on you."

Sam waved a dismissive hand at his brother, turning to walk from the room, but spared a look back. The house was too quiet, he knew. That had been the problem last night, too.

"Go, Sam," Dean grumbled quietly, somehow sensing that he was still lingering.

Sam stepped into the hallway, his back against the wall. Their routine was to their detriment. Years of abandoned buildings and musty hotel rooms forcing close proximity had created a co-dependency where being separated was foreign.

He knew they'd get used to it, eventually. For Sam, it was actually _nice_ to have his own space. His own room. His own…_anything_. But it was also strange to be apart from the sound of his brother's rhythmic breathing, the routine of sleeping and waking, nightmares and peace woven together like scaffolding that supported the night.

And now, it seemed, more than ever, the quiet was not Dean's friend. He remembered his brother being on the other side of steady after he'd returned from Hell – waking shaking and sweating from a nightmare the likes of which Sam didn't want to imagine, and reaching immediately for a bottle or flask. Sam had been distracted then; focused on his next hit of demon blood, his next tryst with Ruby.

He wasn't distracted now.

He slid down the wall to sit with his knees up, left arm draped across, right arm cradled close to his body as the ache in his shoulder thrummed an unhappy cadence. He dropped his head back against the wall behind him and waited, evening his breaths, closing his eyes, listening.

An hour passed; Sam's legs started to go numb, his back adding to the ache in his arm from the hard surface. Part of him just wanted to get up, head to bed, and let Dean ride it out as he knew his brother would have to eventually. Dean was sleeping at least; that was an improvement over the previous night.

His thoughts slipped to what Rufus had revealed about the amulet and what he could remember about Joseph Campbell and his works. He knew he'd read _Hero with a Thousand Faces_ in one of his Stanford classes; he tried to recall the correlations and connections Campbell had made, wondering at how it applied to Dean's role with the amulet. He'd managed to mentally catalog and list the next steps in what he could research on the subject when he heard the first murmur of terror coming from Dean's room.

It was just a low moan, not really something that would have caught his attention were they sharing a motel room as they typically did. Definitely not something he would have heard had he been sleeping comfortably in his own bed down the hall. But it was enough that Sam was on alert, listening for what came next.

A plea. A whisper of _no_. A sudden hammering of breath.

"Dean."

A curse. A shift against the bed. A gasp of pain.

"Hey."

A growl. A burst of unintelligible mutterings. A cease of all breath.

"Sam?"

"I'm right here, man."

"Where're we…?"

"The house, remember?"

A shaky sigh. A low groan. A shift in the bed.

"Son of a bitch."

Silence. Heartbeats thudded in his ears as he waited, listening.

"Sam?"

"Right here."

He didn't move from the hallway, didn't step into the room. That would only acknowledge the fact that Dean needed him nearby, and he knew his brother didn't want to admit to that weakness, no matter how true it was.

"Go back to sleep, Dean."

"Dammit, Sammy."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"You should."

"Yeah, well."

A train whistle in the distance. The sound of a dog barking. Springs on the bed creaking with movement.

"'m sorry, man."

"Go back to sleep, Dean."

"'bout you?"

"I'll be okay."

He would, too. Dean would eventually return to his restless sleep, and Sam would eventually make his way to his room, stretch out on his bed, roll to his stomach, and bury his face in his pillow as the world retreated. He knew that the moment he allowed himself to sleep, everything would slip away, darkness a peaceful respite from the noise of the day. Since Stull, since that heat had burned through them both, Sam welcome sleep, embraced it as he hadn't in years.

But Dean's sleep was troubled, the burden of required rest not something he was going to easily accept. And if being reminded that he wasn't alone was what he needed to get the few hours each night his mind would allow, Sam was going to give that to him.

Even if it meant starting a few nights on the floor of the hallway.

"Sam?"

"Yeah."

"Thanks."

Sam smiled, rubbing his shoulder, his head tipped back against the wall. It wasn't going to be easy, this transition. But nothing in their lives had been so far; why should this be any different?

"Go to sleep, Dean. I'll watch your back."

www

* * *

**a/n**: Hope you're still entertained. Next four chapters of Part 1 will take the boys on a bit of a transitional journey, setting them up mentally for what comes at them in Part 2. Also, just to reassure you - we will get a reason for the boys' "connection" due to the amulet. But with everything else they're dealing with, it's not top of their priority list...until it has to be. *waggles eyebrows*

Many thanks to yasminke for her help with Rufus' prayer.

Rufus' Prayer:

B'gan Ayden t'hay m'nuchato; la-chayn Ba-al Harachamim yas-tiray-hu b'sayter k'nafav l'olamim, v'yitz-ror bitz-ror hacha-yim et nishmato….

Translation:

May his resting place be in the Garden of Eden - therefore may the Master of Mercy shelter him in the shelter of His wings for Eternity, and may He bind his soul in the Bond of Life….


	7. Part One: Chapter 6

**Title: **From Yesterday  
**Fandom:** Supernatural  
**Author**: gaelicspirit  
**Characters:** Dean, Sam, and OCs  
**Disclaimer/Summary:** See Prologue

**Author's Note: **I swear I try to keep up with the Friday postings. I'm sorry for being late. Again. *ducks handfuls of Peanut M&Ms thrown at me*

This is both an exploration into Winchester "regular life" (such as it is) and the first steps into the situation they find themselves in Part 2. I hope you enjoy!

* * *

The mornings were the hardest.

Each day Dean woke, feeling slightly surprised to still be here, body filmed in the sweat of his nightmares, back aching, hip throbbing, jaw nightmares were kicking his ass. He'd had them before - all his life, really - but since Stull they felt...amplified. Increased. As if he were dreaming for two.

Dean would force himself to lie still, breathing, and staring out through the window as his body worked to ground him in the knowledge that he was _here_. The window in his room was a long, narrow single pane of glass positioned at the top of the wall; Sam had offered to cover it with paper, but instead, Dean had asked him to move his bed to the other side of the room.

At night, he could see the stars. In the morning, the sun woke him.

While he couldn't seem to sleep _enough_ in the hospital, once released, he'd been unable to; even the cat naps his body forced him to take on threat of complete shut-down were really only skimming the complete darkness of real rest. He'd compromise by lying on the couch during the day, leg up to get pressure off of his hip, and zoning out to repeats of _Charmed_ on TNT while Sam was out at his job, or running errands, or just...living his life.

At night, however, when Sam was home, Dean would retreat to his room and hope his mind would cooperate for just a few hours.

His brother was a smart guy; picking up on the fact that the quiet of their rented house amplified the noise of Dean's nightmares, Sam had started to play music at night. At first, Dean didn't pick up on it, so preoccupied by the aches, pains, and dread of night. But as he tried to force relaxation, he realized he was hearing Boston in the background, coming from the kitchen, and knew that Sam had turned on the AM/FM radio secured to the underside of the cabinet.

From that point forward, the start of the nights got better as Dean stared at the stars through his window, listening to voices as familiar as his own lull him into a sense of security deep enough he could let go and tip over the edge of consciousness. When the nightmares woke him, he heard them again to remind him he was safe, he was _here_.

And when that didn't work, Sam's voice wasn't too far away.

Each morning, though, he had to brace himself to face that day's allotment of torture: brushing his wired-together teeth, going through the physical therapy routine that worked his muscles loose enough he could move, stand, _breathe_.

The first few days, he hadn't been able to shave – he'd had help from the nurses in the hospital and hadn't quite figured out how to maneuver the razor with his left hand and avoid the scars along his jaw. Sam couldn't help him without touching his skin and they both knew if that happened, having a razor in hand wasn't the best idea. They solved that particular dilemma, however, by getting him an electric shaver.

He could get used to the miniscule amount of scruff the shaver left behind, and it served to help camouflage the thinning scars.

Each morning, it took him a good ten minutes to roll to his side and push to his feet. Sam had helped him there, too, for awhile – providing the anchor he needed to get upright and moving. Once on his feet, he was able to work out the breath-stealing stiffness in his hip and often let the soothing heat of a shower – and thank _everything_ the house had decent water pressure – ease the rest of the aches to the dull roar he'd learned to live with.

The mess of scar tissue on the palm of his hand was still tender and he could barely bend the tips of his fingers – he looked like he was palming a cantaloupe – but the to-the-bone pain he'd toughed out the first few weeks since Stull had faded. The only time it ever caused him any real pain was if he attempted to curl his fingers inward.

Whenever he was foolish enough to attempt such a thing it felt as if he were gripping shards of glass, the sensation stabbing through his hand and sending shock-waves of pain shimmering up his arm.

His vision was still shadowed, but as he'd not been tested in a combat-like situation, he'd been able to compensate by shifting his position, turning his head, and making sure he kept Sam on his right side as much as possible.

The ocular specialist Dr. Randall had sent him to diagnosed nerve damage as a result of a severe concussion. It was pretty much anyone's guess if his vision would ever fully return. He'd not yet driven since the hospital, so he wasn't sure how tough it was going to be to have such limited peripheral vision, but he knew he'd figure it out, and shut Sam down fast when his brother _dared_ suggest he think about taking a break from driving.

He was getting behind that wheel as soon as he got the windshield repaired.

He was slated to get the wires removed from his jaw soon; once that happened, Dean felt he'd be ready to move on. But Sam…Sammy wasn't too keen on going anywhere.

In the two weeks since Dean had been released from the hospital, Sam secured a job at a bar downtown called Freestate Brewery – which Dean had to admit fit his brother's need to be around people and new habit of having to be moving unless he was asleep – and had made friends with his co-workers, their landlady, and the old guy who ran the Laundromat down the street. He'd even gone out with a group of people from his new job two nights ago, and while he'd asked Dean to come along, he'd been content with Dean's decision to stay behind.

Since the repair of the Impala's windshield was being saved for Dean, Sam accompanied him via bus to physical therapy. They'd found a grocery store, the Salvation Army, a coffee shop and even a bar – other than the one where Sam worked – they both agreed suited their tastes.

Sam was settling in.

But Dean…, well, it was odd, the claustrophobic feeling he got from staying in one place. He never thought he'd feel this way about having a home. It had been the one thing he'd wanted growing up. It had been the one thing his father had wanted _for_ him. But now that it was a possibility, all he could think of was what he _didn't _have: the job.

He missed the feeling of accomplishment when he smoked a spirit or sent a demon back to Hell. He missed the search and the lore and the feel of a weapon in his hand. He missed the rush of danger and thrill he got from saving someone. He missed the brief flash that what he did mattered – that _he_ mattered. He missed his friends. He missed the road.

Hell, he missed his _car._

"You going in early or something?" Dean asked his brother as he made his way into the kitchen. It always took a bit before he could move without the tale-tell limp.

Sam sat at the small kitchen table, dressed, eating a bowl of cereal and reading the paper. It looked so normal that Dean had to consciously stop himself from asking Sam if he'd found a hunt.

"Nah," Sam said around a mouthful of Cheerios. "Gonna get some laundry done. Head to the store. Maybe the library." He grinned at Dean, dimples showing. "Get paid today."

"Freestate's pretty _free_ with their money," Dean remarked, noting how pleased Sam was about getting paid for a _legitimate_ job. "Didn't you just start?"

"Couple weeks ago," Sam reminded him, eyes following his movement as Dean grabbed a mug and poured himself some coffee using his left hand. "They pay every two weeks. Got lucky with my timing, I guess."

Dean kept the bandages in place on his right hand, though the wound had healed enough to render them unnecessary. Sam had removed his own bandages days ago; then again, Sam was also _using_ his hand. Dean leaned against the counter, shifting so that he could see his brother clearly, rather than via the shadowed half of his vision.

"You were born lucky, Sammy," Dean grinned, breathing in the heady scent of the coffee before he carefully puckered his lips on the edge of the mug so that he could funnel the hot liquid through the narrow opening of his teeth.

"What are you doing today?" Sam asked.

Dean paused, considering how much to tell his brother. "Gonna find a windshield for the Impala. Get her fixed up."

Sam immediately frowned, his eyes darting from Dean's scar-lined jaw, to his hand, to his hip, then back to his face. Dean nodded to himself: Sam wasn't ready for the full truth. Like the fact that he'd found a mechanic's shop down near the river the first day Sam went to work at Freestate Brewery. Or the fact that he'd asked them to start looking for a windshield that same day.

And certainly not the fact that the owner of the shop also owned a shooting range and had offered to help Dean practice shooting left-handed as soon as he was strong enough to hold a 9mm again.

"Good," Sam replied, his tone careful, measured. "That's good."

Dean pretended not to notice the hard swallow and the line of worry that puckered Sam's brow.

"Want me to go to the Laundromat for you?" Dean offered.

He did _occasionally_ feel bad for allowing Sam to do the household chores.

"I got it." Sam shook his head.

Dean grinned at his brother, barely feeling the scars pull as he did so. "You're a good housewife, Sammy."

"Bite me," Sam returned good-naturedly.

Dean set about mixing his power shake, loudly cursing each ingredient as Sam complained that he was _trying_ to read the paper and could Dean please do that quietly just _one_ morning when Sam's phone vibrated against the table loud enough they both jumped. Sam picked it up, and frowned at the screen.

"It's a text. From Rufus," he said. "You remember Jodi Mills?"

"Uh…," Dean searched his memory, coming up with a pretty, stern, dark-haired sheriff who'd lost her husband and son when the zombie pre-Apocalypse had hit Bobby's hometown. "Great figure, nice eyes, killer aim."

Sam nodded. "That'd be her. Guess she's helping Rufus go through Bobby's house. There's some stuff there for us."

Dean turned away from Sam, trying not to think about their mentor and friend…or the hundreds of books on lore stashed in Bobby's study. "Like what?"

"It's a text, man," Sam muttered, tossing down his phone and slurping the milk from the bottom of his cereal bowl. "Not a dissertation."

"Jeeze. Touchy much?"

"I'll call him later," Sam said, moving past Dean to rinse his bowl in the sink. "You got PT this afternoon?"

Dean nodded, slipping the straw through his parted teeth and sucking down the shake.

"Want me to go with you?"

Dean shook his head. The walks and bus rides had been hell on his hip and back, but they had helped him start to rebuild the lean muscle he'd lost in the hospital. A diet of protein shakes had dropped his body weight until he was belting his jeans on the last available notch. He was more than ready to start eating regular food again, but if today was the day the wires came off, he didn't want Sam there worrying over him.

"I got it," he muttered around the straw.

"'K," Sam conceded, starting to turn back toward the bedrooms to, presumably, gather the laundry when a knock sounded at the door. Sam looked at Dean. "You expecting someone?"

"Like who?" Dean lifted a brow. "You're the one with the social circle. Everyone I know is here."

Eyes narrowing, Sam moved toward the door and Dean didn't miss how his brother's hand instinctively moved toward the small of his back, as if reaching for a weapon, before remembering and settling on his hip as he opened the door a crack. Dean watched Sam's shoulders tighten, relax, and then tighten once more as he stepped back, opening the door wide enough Dean could see who stood there.

"Sergeant Jackson," Sam greeted. "Morning."

"Mind if I come in a minute?" Jackson asked, nodding toward Dean.

Dean tipped his head back, turning toward the cabinets. "Want some coffee?"

"Uh, sure," Jackson replied, a burst of cold air following him as he stepped inside. He moving awkwardly into the small kitchen and cast his eyes around in what appeared to be a habitual casing of the room. His face was red from the cold and his hands were chapped where they gripped the wide brim of his hat. "Thanks."

"How can we help you?" Sam asked, solicitous as always.

"Wanted to let you both know you've officially become a cold case," Jackson said, nodding his thanks as Dean handed him a mug of black coffee. It didn't occur to Dean to offer him anything in it.

Sam leaned against the wall next to the door, arms crossed over his chest. "How's that?"

"Well," Jackson sighed, then cleared his throat. Dean noticed that he seemed almost too big for the small room – and that was saying something as Sam fit in there perfectly. "Since you both have doctor-verified PTSD and situational amnesia," Jackson said, "and since CSU hasn't been able to identify the blood or fingerprints at the crime scene…there isn't anyone to arrest."

"Situational amnesia?" Dean repeated, exchanging a look with his brother. "This a real thing?"

Jackson met Dean's eyes squarely. "It is now."

Dean didn't blame the man for burying the truth. He'd bluffed his way into enough police stations to know how the truth would have gone over had Jackson filed the story they'd told him. He had to admit, though, that the fact Jackson wasn't calling bullshit and hauling their asses into the station to hang out in a jail cell, now that they were healed enough to do so, suggested the Sergeant had seen more than weird weather patterns in his patrols of Lawrence.

He watched the cop sip his coffee. "So…that's it?"

Jackson took a deep breath through his nose, then nodded. "Long as I'm in charge of the investigation…and, until or unless the perpetrators strike again…. Yes."

"Any chance you won't be in charge?" Sam asked.

"Always a chance," Jackson admitted with a head tilt. "There's a few down at the station I wouldn't want to get a hold of this, so…keep your noses clean."

Dean glanced at Sam again, watching a muscle in his brother's jaw bounce at the thought.

"They might, you know," Dean offered, finishing his shake. "Strike again."

"No, they won't," Sam countered.

Dean rolled his eyes and turned away, rinsing his glass.

"Well, _if_ they do," Jackson said, pausing long enough that Dean turned back around to see that the cop's eyes had caught on the sigils Sam had painted on the door, then above the door. "Uh…if they do…I know who to call first."

"Venkman and Stantz at your service," Dean quipped.

"Dean," Sam protested.

"What? Bustin' makes you feel good."

Sam shook his head, exasperated.

Dean quieted, but couldn't help a small smile. He knew it wasn't over, no matter what Sam wanted to believe. There was too much evil in the world to be quieted by one battle, no matter how big that battle had been. They still had a job to do.

"Thanks, Jackson," Sam said, crossing from the door and taking Jackson's empty cup from him.

"Figured you'd want to know," Jackson said, eyeing both of them. "You seem to be healing up okay." He looked at Sam. "I hear you got a job at Freestate?"

Sam nodded. "Work evening shift."

"Good people," Jackson told him. "They'll treat you right. How 'bout you?" He asked Dean.

Dean shook his head. "Nothing yet. Used to be good with my hands, but…."

He saw Jackson's gaze drop to his bandaged right hand. "Saw that Chevy out front. Classic."

"Yeah," Dean nodded. "Was our Dad's."

"Didn't stay in such good condition on its own," Jackson commented.

Dean saw where this was going and was going to head Jackson off, but Sam grabbed the carrot and sank his teeth in. "Dean rebuilt it."

"Rebuilt?"

"From scrap," Sam said. "He's really good with cars."

Dean wanted to kick him. He didn't need a job. Not _that_ kind of job anyway. Not one he'd only be able to half-ass.

"My brother-in-law owns a garage not far from here," Jackson told Dean. "Mason's. Down by the river. When you feel up to it, stop by. Tell 'em I sent you."

Dean nodded his thanks. "Will do," he replied.

He didn't bother telling anyone he'd been there, done that. Was going back today. But for entirely different reasons.

"Okay, well," Jackson turned toward the door. "You boys take care. Stay out of trouble."

Sam started to open the door for him.

"Oh, one more thing," Jackson paused and rotated half-way, looking at Dean. "I remembered what you said about this," he reached behind his back and pulled their father's Colt free. Dean felt his skin ripple at the sight of it. "It should be in evidence, but…," Jackson looked down at the weapon, hefting it in his hand, "something tells me it would be safer with you."

"Thanks," Dean said, taking the gun and automatically opening the cylinder. "No bullets?"

Jackson shook his head. "I'm not saying I believe you," Jackson told them, glancing at Sam. "But I'm not saying I _don't_. Either way, I'm not handing you a loaded weapon."

"Thanks," Sam said, sounding heart-breakingly sincere. "I mean it. Thanks, Jackson." He held out his hand and Jackson shook it, then nodded at Dean before slapping his hat on his head and leaving.

Sam tossed his brother a stony glare as he closed the door behind Jackson.

"What?" Dean protested.

"Y'know…we live here, now, Dean."

"_For_ now, Sam."

Sam shook his head. "This is our life, man. Like it or not, hunting is part of our past."

"You're wrong." Dean felt the heat slip from his voice, his face, his eyes.

"I'm not," Sam returned. "Sooner you come to terms with that, better off we'll both be."

Dean said nothing as Sam grabbed the two bags of laundry from the rooms, hauling them by their pull-strings over his shoulder and out the front door. Taking a breath, Dean checked the bandage on his hand while he waited for Sam to get far enough away from the house, then went to his room to open the footlocker that housed his weapons.

He set the Colt inside, eyes lingering on the warn, wooden grip, remembering for a moment the way it had felt in his hand as he'd killed the demon that was beating Sam to death, as he'd taken out Azazel in retribution for killing their mother…and as he'd shot Lucifer point-blank and watched the bastard rise up, unaffected.

Taking out his 1911 and two clips, he slipped the weapon into the small of his back, flipped his shirttail out to conceal it, then grabbed his leather jacket and tucked the clips into the side pockets.

Sliding his loose change for the bus from the top of his dresser into his jeans pocket, he headed out of their house, locking the door behind him. Though the day was bright and clear, the air had a definite bite. He remembered the Kansas wind; it wasn't something easily forgotten. But he _had_ forgotten how brittle the air could be in the winter. He definitely didn't have enough clothes on and after being outside just a few minutes, his leather jacket stiffened until it was like wearing a suit of armor.

The walk from their house to the mechanic's shop seemed to crystallize his lungs and Dean could almost imagine frost collecting on the screws that kept his ribs in place. By the time he walked into the warmth of Mason's garage, the bell above the door announcing his presence, he was visibly shivering.

"Jesus H. Christ, kid," a voice boomed from the back of the shop. "You ain't got a lick 'a sense."

Dean blinked, shifting to his left so that he could see the full room. It smelled of oil, exhaust, grease, and, inexplicably, soap. The high-pitched whine of a drill echoed from beneath a big, black Dodge pick-up and Willie Nelson twanged about heroes and cowboys from a small radio high-up on a dingy, white shelf littered with boxes of nuts, bolts, and car parts. The two, large garage doors that faced Elm Street were closed, keeping the warmth in, and a red-headed guy about Sam's age was leaning over the engine of a maroon-colored Lincoln.

Drinking in the sights as if they were his first glance of home in years, Dean tracked the sound of the voice until he saw him. Scott Mason – a tall, muscular man in a grease-stained Nine-Inch-Nails T-shirt and rolled-down gray coveralls, jet-black hair and a seemingly permanent five-o'clock shadow – made his way toward Dean, his severely bowed legs turning his gait into more of a roll than a walk.

"D-don't know what y-you're talking 'bout," Dean managed. The warmth of the shop made his shivering more pronounced.

"Damn jaw wired shut and I still hear them teeth chatterin'," Mason grumbled. "The hell you think you are? Ari-freakin-zona?"

Dean blinked at the big man as he allowed himself to be man-handled through a creaky, glass-covered door and into a small office. Behind the paper-strewn desk was a leather chair, the surface cracked and faded from years of wear, and a small space heater. He winced as Mason pushed him down into the chair and turned him to face the warm air. Mason's perpetually ruddy face and slicked-back dark hair reflected in the mirror over the top of the desk. Dean met the man's eyes in the reflection.

"Sorry," he tried.

"Sorry, he says," Mason muttered. "Bet you're sorry. Bet that hip of yours is _making_ you sorry."

Dean nodded. He wasn't sure it was safe to do much else.

"You been coming in here every day for a week now," Mason informed him. "And every day, what do I tell you?"

"Get a coat."

"Get a goddamned coat!"

"I _got_ a coat."

"That ain't a coat!" Mason flicked his fingers against Dean's shoulder, his nails hitting the still-cold leather with a hollow-sounding _thunk_. "That's a…a mantel. A badge. You're gonna freeze to death 'cause of a damned badge."

Dean blinked in surprise, gasping slightly as his wounded hand began to warm up, the scar tissue ticking painfully. He hadn't told Mason one word about his father, or this jacket, yet no one had so accurately labeled the reason he wore it before. He leaned forward a bit, drawn toward the heat, and let Mason pointlessly stack the papers on his desk into piles as he grumbled.

Once he could feel his face again, Dean straightened and turned, catching Mason's attention. "I brought something today."

"Oh, you did, did ya?"

"Think I'm strong enough," Dean informed him, carrying on with the unspoken agreement to never directly come out and say that Mason would give him access to his shooting range.

Mason narrowed his bright-blue eyes – eyes that had reminded Dean strangely of Castiel when he'd first met the big man – and tilted his head. "When do you get those wires off?"

Dean swallowed. "Today, maybe."

"You come back then, and we'll talk."

"Listen, Mas—"

"Ah!" Mason held up a hand. "My range, my rules." He put his hand on the knob of the door, then paused without turning around. "You been through enough, kid. Give it time."

At that he pulled the door open, stepped back into the noise of the garage, and closed the door behind him, leaving Dean to gape in confusion. On a hunch, Dean pushed to his feet, ignoring the twinge along his ribs, and moved around the front of the desk, rifling through the stacks of papers Mason had been seemingly shuffling out of nervous energy.

Below several invoices and receipts, Dean found a print-out of an email chain dated six days prior. Glancing up and around, he realized he didn't see a computer in the office, nor a printer. He picked up the papers and saw a note in decidedly feminine handwriting across the corner of the page: _Babe, I think this is the boy who came into your shop today, asking about the windshield for the Chevy. Kirby's been worried. I thought you should see this._

"Worried?" Dean muttered, tilting the print out toward the light spilling in through the glass door so that he could read it better.

It was an email conversation between Sergeant Jackson and, apparently, his sister, Kristi – Mason's wife. Jackson hadn't mentioned Dean or Sam by name, but he'd recounted their story almost word-for-word. Upon Kristi's prompting, he'd elaborated his concerns not only about the history of Stull and the "crazies" he'd had to haul away from there each year, but mentioned several other mysterious happenings around Lawrence over the years.

Not the least of which had been the fire in the Winchester home twenty-five years ago.

As Dean scanned Jackson's stream of consciousness thinking to his sister, he didn't see the words _domestic disturbance, suicide, _or _mental break_. He saw _haunting_. He saw _possession_. He saw _spirit_.

He saw the job.

Glancing up, he realized that Mason was standing on the other side of the door, watching him through the glass, registering what it was he'd been reading. Dean set the papers down slowly, meeting Mason's eyes. The big man seemed to sink inside himself a bit as his shoulders lifted and Dean saw in the man's blue eyes a look of _knowing_ and resignation.

Dean simply nodded. _It's real. You're not crazy_.

Mason looked away, glancing at the red-headed kid who was now singing along with Johnny Cash, oblivious to the necessary key, then turned back to Dean. He pushed his lips out in a silent sigh, then opened the door.

"I meant what I said," Mason grumbled, his voice maintaining the gentle gruffness Dean had come to appreciate in his short time knowing the man. "You get the wires off; we'll go out on the range."

"Is there something you need to tell me?" Dean asked, tipping his head back toward the email print out resting on the top of Mason's desk.

Mason looked at him, his eyes holding a filtered sadness that Dean didn't quite understand. "Nothing you don't already know, kid."

Dean frowned at that, but stepped out of the office, and joined Mason in the noise of the garage. The red-head stopped singing when he saw Dean and all-but dove headfirst back into the Lincoln's engine. The whine of the drill had stopped and Dean found himself instinctively looking for a third person.

"We got something you're gonna like," Mason told him, clapping a big hand down on Dean's shoulder.

From behind where the Dodge was parked, a slightly heavy-set, Native American woman of about fifty emerged, pushing a metal cart with a wooden crate balanced on top. Dean frowned, tilting his head to the left get a better look at the crate. The woman stopped in front of him and grinned. Dean saw she had two gold teeth that reflected the harsh, overhead lights.

"This is Mia Lighthawk. Mia, meet Dean," Mason swept his hand between them.

"You're one of those guys from out at Stull," Mia declared.

Dean shot a look at Mason. Surely he hadn't let anyone else see that email…?

Mason shrugged. "Lawrence is basically a small town, kid. One newspaper story and you're a marked man."

"There was a story?" Why hadn't Sam told him? Damn kid read the paper every day.

"Think it was back when you were still in the hospital," Mason explained. "Big ruckus about unknown assailant, your brother shot, you pretty near beaten to death. You know. Basic stuff."

"Huh," Dean looked at the ground. "Right. Basic stuff." Filing back through the past week, he realized now that Mason had accepted Dean's story about his injuries a bit easily.

"Anyway," Mason continued. "Mia found your windshield."

Dean looked closer at the crate. "I'll be damned," he muttered. "Nice work. That ain't easy."

"You're tellin' me," Mia muttered. "Had to call damn near out to Boston to find one."

Dean looked at her, his face relaxing into a genuine smile for the first time in months. "Thanks, Mia."

To his surprise, the older woman returned his smile, then blushed and looked away, running a grease-stained hand through her short, black hair. Dean hadn't thought about purposely turning on the charm since before Stull – and if he were honest, he didn't know if the scars allowed for the same reaction a particular grin from him would have elicited before. But Mia's blush had him wondering….

Mason cleared his throat and rested a hand on the crate.

"'Spect you're gonna need some help replacing it."

Dean nodded. "I did it myself once, I just…," he trailed off, trying to find a way to say, _I had two working hands then_.

"I can help," Mia offered. "Not a problem."

Dean heard the grin in Mason's voice as he replied, "I thought you might say that." He turned to Dean. "You think you can bring your Chevy by tomorrow?"

Dean nodded. He didn't care if he couldn't see through the windshield. He'd hang his head out of the side window like a dog if he had to.

"I gotta go," he said, glancing up at the clock hanging over the office door. It was going to take him awhile to get to the bus stop and he had physical therapy in a couple of hours. He looked at Mia again. "Thanks. I mean it."

Mia smiled again, then turned and headed back to the Dodge. Dean watched her walk away, his eyes tracking to the red-head who'd been working on the Lincoln. At some point as they'd been looking at the new windshield, the kid had apparently gotten a phone call. He was hanging up his cell with a troubled look on his face.

"Mase," he said, his voice cracking as he approached. "I need the rest of the day off."

Mason frowned. "You need what?"

"It's my grandma, man," the kid said. "She just got brought into the ER."

Mason's expression instantly cleared. "Sure, Tommy. Whatever you need."

Tommy hastily wiped the grease from his fingers with a pink shop towel, tossing the towel back toward the Lincoln, then ran from the garage.

"Poor kid," Mason muttered as he walked with Dean toward the door. "That's my other mechanic, Tommy McMahon," he said to Dean. He frowned, his eyes sad. "He ain't got any other family. Hope the old lady's okay."

"Me, too," Dean said sincerely. He looked back at Mason. "Tomorrow."

Mason regarded him solemnly. "Windshield."

"And range," Dean pressed.

"We'll see," Mason muttered, as Dean gripped the handle, preparing to push the door open to the chill of the day. "And get a damn coat!"

"Yeah, yeah," Dean replied, stepping outside and wishing, belatedly, he'd thought to grab a ride with Tommy.

www

Sam would never admit it, but he enjoyed the hours spent at the nearby Laundromat. He liked the warmth, the smell, the monotone of the driers, the people all caught in the net of their own thoughts. He liked the time to himself to read, to think, to make lists and plans and consider possibilities.

It wasn't as though Dean wouldn't allow him time on his own; Dean pulled inside himself more and more each day, leaving Sam to ask the right question that would get his brother to expose his thoughts as more than shadows shifting the lines of his face. But that was different.

Alone _with_ Dean was lonely. Alone away from him was…peaceful. Purposeful.

Sam nodded at Mr. Andrews, the owner of the Laundromat, who sat just inside the door, near the vending machines, and read a paperback – different book every time Sam came in – one hand leaning on the curved head of his cane as his rheumatic brown eyes unobtrusively tracked the movement of people in and out of the store.

"How's the book?" Sam asked, setting his two bags down at a line of empty washing machines.

"Read this one already." Mr. Andrews' voice was thick and chalky, like an alcoholic who'd reformed one year too late. His age-spotted scalp was framed by a wreath of wispy white hair and his wire-rimmed glasses were perched just at the end of a too-long, narrow nose.

"That good, huh?" Sam asked, starting to dig through the first bag for whites. He never really bothered too much with separating the loads. Whites and denim. Both in cold. They didn't really wear the kinds of clothes that would get ruined in the wash.

"Nah." Mr. Andrews folded the book around his thumb, marking his place. "Just forgot until I was half-way through."

Sam grinned at him, filling up one machine and sliding down to another. "You should come with me to the library sometime," Sam offered. "Get some new ones."

"Sometime," Mr. Andrews nodded, taking a drink from his thermos. Sam knew he wanted everyone to think it was coffee, but he could smell the whiskey from where he was standing.

As Mr. Andrews turned back to his book, Sam started into the second bag, filled mostly with Dean's clothes. He'd not done a load of Dean's clothes in awhile. It had been weeks since Dean had amassed enough clothes to warrant a trip to the Laundromat. Sam stuffed T-shirts and flannel shirts into one machine, then began to pull out jeans.

Inside the draw-string bag, Sam realized, was a plastic bag. He removed it and blinked in surprise: Lawrence Memorial Hospital. Opening the bag, he could immediately smell old blood. It wasn't a scent one easily forgot. Removing Dean's blood-stained jeans, Sam stared, remembering.

Laying them flat, he saw that they had been the jeans Dean wore to the hospital. Something cold settled in his gut as he saw the smear of blood along the pockets. Sam's fingerprints; he'd been searching for a cell phone at the time. It seemed like so long ago, but it had been barely six weeks. Forcing himself to take a steadying breath, Sam started to ball up the jeans and stuff them in the washer when he felt something in the back pocket.

Frowning, he pulled out a worn, dirt-smudged envelope. It had been sealed at one time, but was now torn open, the ragged edged folded flat, the seams clearly worked over by repetitive creasing. There wasn't a name on the outside; Sam pulled the folded paper from the envelope, the cold feeling spreading from his gut to his heart as he looked at the letterhead.

It was from the same hotel where Sam had found Dean just before he'd tried to say 'yes' to Michael, nearly a year ago now. He'd found his brother in a motel room, boxing up his worldly possessions – which sadly had only consisted of his car keys, leather jacket, and gun – and writing a letter to Sam, Bobby, and Cas, ready to sacrifice himself and let Michael take out Lucifer, saving as many as he could. It had been the lowest point Sam had felt on their whole long journey toward the night at Stull.

Dean hadn't given in, though. He hadn't because of Sam. And Cas. And Bobby. And possibly a little bit of Adam. Because he knew they needed him more than he needed this to be over. And Sam had forgotten about the moment, and the letter, and the absolute despair he'd seen tucked deep into Dean's eyes when he'd opened that motel room door.

Until now.

Sam looked at the letterhead for the hotel, remember distinctly how he'd panicked, how he'd tried to remember anything – _anything_ – about his brother's habits, his needs. How he'd searched four cities before he'd found the right one, trying to figure out what Dean would need to say goodbye to if he thought he was going to die. He'd been truly scared that day. More than anytime he and Dean had gone up against the impossible together. He'd been more alone in that moment than any night he'd ever walked away from Dean, from their father, from his life, his family.

His hand was shaking as he opened the letter, puzzled as he remembered distinctly burning the one Dean had written to him. Symbolism meant a lot to a hunter. A suicide note burning in effigy went a long way in Sam's mind.

He never knew there'd been a second letter. And once he read the name at the top, he knew why. It would never in a million years have occurred to him that Dean would have thought of her, let alone written a letter to her, at his final hour.

_Brenna_.

Sam darted his eyes up and around the nearly-vacant Laundromat, as if afraid someone would catch him and snatch the letter from his hand. No one paid him one bit of attention. Not even Mr. Andrews, who had returned to re-reading his novel.

Catching his lip between his teeth, Sam shoved the letter back in the envelope, then folded the envelope and put it in his back pocket. He completed loading the washers, shoved quarters into the slots, and started up the cycle. He contemplated keeping the letter in his pocket until he got home, then setting it back in Dean's room.

"Who am I kidding," he muttered, pulling the letter out and hopping up on top of one of the washers to read.

Dean had had this on him at Stull – at the moment he'd thought everything they'd ever fought and suffered for was ending. He must have forgotten it was there, or thought the hospital had trashed it, because Sam knew that his brother would never let this letter out of his possession if he had remembered it.

Unfolding the paper, Sam first took in the sight of Dean's neat, almost block-like hand writing. It struck Sam that with Dean's right hand so damaged he might not ever see anything written by his brother again – at least not like this. They both had read their father's journal countless times, memorizing the coils and twirls of John's scrawl. Of the two of them, Sam was typically the one to take notes on lore they found in the library or at Bobby's. He hadn't had many occasions to see his brother's writing and it was oddly intimate to do so now.

Especially considering who Dean had written this letter to.

They'd first met Brenna Kavanagh years ago when their father had still been alive. She'd been raised by her grandfather, Declan Kavanagh, an…_associate_ of John Winchester's. Sam wouldn't have gone so far as to call the old man a friend, but he'd known their father. Her druid roots had made her something of an enigma to the brothers – causing them to suspect her of witchcraft at one point, thanks in part to John's encouragement.

But Dean had known, Sam remembered. He'd known Brenna's heart the way Sam had known Jessica's. He hadn't needed her druid sight, her way of seeing inside a person with a touch, seeing the truth inside the lies. He'd connected to her with that first encounter in a way Sam had never known his brother to connect to anyone before. And, Sam realized, every woman Dean had been with since had been a pale reflection of Brenna.

Sam knew exactly how that felt.

Jessica had been the one. His match. He'd been drawn to others. He'd desired others. He'd even followed through on a few occasions. But none of them had been Jess.

_Brenna,_

_I shouldn't be writing this, I know. Last you saw me I was a dead man walking. One-way ticket to Hell._

Sam blinked, looking up, remembering the wizard and the blade that Sam had hoped to use to exchange Dean's soul with a demon's and save him from Hell. That had been the last time they'd seen Brenna. The wizard had nearly bled Dean out by cutting Sam with that blade: one the weapon, the other the wound.

"She doesn't know," he whispered, staring at the worn paper with sightless eyes.

How would she? Unless Dean had called her, which, clearly, he hadn't. As far as Brenna Kavanagh was concerned, Dean Winchester had died almost three years ago, having sold his soul in exchange for his brother's life.

_I came back. I can't tell you how…or why. But I did. I didn't contact you because…well, what was I gonna say? I turned you away and you've gone on. Lived your life just like I told you to. Virge has been watching out for you. He's a good guy._

Sam smiled a bit, remembering the blue-eyed EMT they'd nicknamed 'Sinatra.' Virgil had tossed his hat in the ring when them the moment he'd seen Brenna. His brother had known there wasn't a future for them, so he'd done the only thing he could: he'd given her someone to keep her safe.

_Thing is, something's happened, and it looks like I'm going away again. Pretty sure it's for good this time. I don't want to make this choice, but I can't see my way out of it. It's been made pretty clear that this is my destiny…and I can't escape myself. _

_I thought of everything I'd miss – Sammy, my car, my tunes, the night sky in winter, fishing off of Pastor Jim's dock, digging through Bobby's dusty books, wearing my dad's jacket – and I came around to you. I've missed you. I _will_ miss you._

_I guess I needed you to know that it was real. As short and mixed up as it was, it was real to me. You were real to me. Not your power or your sight or whatever the hell, but _you_. I've thought about you a lot over the last couple years. The way you see me; the way you make me see myself._

Sam looked up again, feeling eyes on him, terrified for a moment that it was Dean. He was seeing a side of his brother through these words that he hadn't paid much attention to before. A side of Dean's heart he found easier to ignore. If Dean caught him now….

But it was Mr. Andrews, motioning with his cane that one of Sam's machines was done. Sam nodded, waving, and then turned back to the letter.

_I want you to have a good life. A safe life. A home and a family and nothing haunting you. But I also want you to know that there wasn't a wasted moment between us. _

_If I did have a choice in all of this, I would choose to find you. And I'd choose to stay this time._

_Dean_

Sliding from the top of the washer on numb legs, Sam mechanically grabbed the cart to empty the wet clothes into and push them over to the driers. _I'd choose to stay this time_. Sam had never once thought that Dean had would ever willingly choose to not hunt. He'd expected to have to fight his brother tooth and nail on settling down, on making Lawrence their home, until Dean finally submitted.

If Dean had thought once, even for a moment – even for a scary, _going to die as an angel condom_ moment – that he'd voluntarily stay in one place, maybe he'd think it again.

Sam slid the letter back into the envelope, then stuck it in his pocket. Dean hadn't mentioned Brenna once since Stull. He hadn't mentioned her since Sam found him in that hotel room and Castiel brought him back to Bobby's. He hadn't mentioned her since he woke up over two years ago to find her gone, having left in the night with Virgil to spare him the goodbye.

For all Sam had known, Dean had filed Brenna away with Cassie, with Lisa, with any of the other possibilities and one-night-stands that helped keep Dean human. She was part of his history, part of what made him who he was, but in his past, none-the-less.

But he'd been wrong.

His seemingly gregarious brother had a well of secrets he hadn't wanted to share, for reasons Sam could only guess. There was more to Dean than Sam had really stopped to appreciate in awhile. More than brother, protector, hunter; more than soldier and survivor.

As he continued to finish their laundry, Sam's ever-churning mind began devising ways he could use this information to keep Dean out of hunting and create a real life for both of them. A life where Dean might find someone or some_thing_ else he'd choose to stay for.

Because more than anything, Sam needed it to be over. Needed to be able to atone for every wrong he felt he'd committed by laying down his arms and turning away from that life. He was terrified of what hunting again might make him do – or what it might turn him into.

If he could force honesty from Dean, he felt certain his brother would say the same thing. There were times now that he'd catch Dean standing eerily still, staring at nothing, his hollow-eyed gaze reminiscent of the weeks after he'd returned from Hell, and of so many years of John's life. Sam knew that there were things Dean was seeing in those moments that frightened him, but he never broke in, never questioned.

Dean had to want the nightmares to end. He had to want some kind of peace. Sam was convinced the only way he could find it was to find that peace was to stop running into the burning building that was hunting.

And he was going to do everything in his power to make that a reality for both of them.

www

The good thing about there being only one hospital in a town the size of Lawrence was that Dean went to the same place for both physical therapy for his hand and to see Dr. Randall for his jaw. That was also the bad thing about there being only one hospital in Lawrence.

He had no time to catch his breath between moments of blinding pain.

He'd visited Dr. Randall first; the man commented on how well he was healing, how the scars on his face were barely visible and his range of motion was much-improved. Dean listened with half an ear, focusing only on the news about his jaw. After one final X-ray showed that the bones had healed as well as anyone anticipated they would, he was relieved to find out today was indeed been the day he would be free of the wire.

It was less painful than he'd braced himself for, but he definitely didn't want to experience it again anytime soon.

"We didn't use arch support due to the location of the fractures," Dr. Randall informed him. "If we had, you'd have needed to be sedated to remove them. As it stands, you are free from binding material, but your range of motion will be severely limited for the next couple of weeks. And, uh," the doctor smiled at him, "stay away from any bar brawls, okay?"

Dean knew the doctor fully believed that he would do everything in his power to avoid such situations. He also knew that if he continued to do his job, that wasn't exactly a given.

With directions for how to slowly increase his food intake and a prescription for pain killers stuffed into his pocket, Dean made his way down to the physical therapy clinic. Leaning against the wall of the elevator, Dean slowly worked his jaw, cautiously opening and shutting it as he ran his fingers along the thin scar.

It felt amazing to have such freedom over his face. He ran his tongue along the inside of his mouth, feeling the indents from where the wires had been imbedded, relishing in the smooth surface of his teeth. The doctor had been right: he wasn't able to open his mouth very wide without discomfort enough to make him wince. But he no longer felt like he was clenching his jaw.

He wouldn't be able to eat a hamburger or a steak straight away, but he was damn-sure going to get himself some pie for the day was out.

The elevator opened near the ER entrance and Dean made his way slowly down the hall, almost too caught up in his own thoughts to notice the ruckus that drew the attention of everyone else in the Physical Therapy waiting area. Hearing someone shout, Dean stopped walking and looked up. Near the entrance to the ER, two uniformed police officers were flanking the red-headed mechanic, Tommy, from Mason's garage.

Frowning, Dean moved closer.

"You got this all wrong, man!" Tommy was shouting, yanking his arm from one of the policeman's grasp. "I had _nothing_ to do with this."

The other cop – managing to look board and irritated at the same time – cautioned Tommy. "Settle down, kid. You don't, and I may have to take you down to the station."

"Fine! Take me! Let me file an official report or whatever!"

"'Scuse me," Dean stepped forward, unable to help himself. "Everything okay here?"

Both policemen shot wary glances in his direction, but Tommy practically flung himself toward Dean.

"Hey, man! Hey!" He grasped Dean's shoulder, pulling him forward hurriedly, then turned back toward the police. "He can tell you. He saw me earlier."

One cop peered closely at Dean. "You saw this guy?"

Dean found himself wishing for Sam's restraining arm; it had kept him from getting involved in many an unstable situation in the past. He nodded. "At Mason's garage earlier today."

"'Bout what time was that?" The other cop flipped open a black notebook.

Dean shrugged. "Like…9? Ish?"

The cops exchanged a look. Tommy practically bounced on the balls of his feet. "See? I wasn't near her when this happened. I was freakin' across town. You need to let me go and go out and look for whoever beat her up."

Dean held up a hand. "Whoa, wait. I thought you were here for your grandma."

Tommy nodded. "Someone knocked her around pretty good," he told Dean. "Mailman heard crashing and shouting and found her out cold in the living room. Called an ambulance."

"So…why do they think you did it?"

Tommy sighed. "'Cause I live with her. And…," he trailed off.

"How 'bout you tell your friend how many times we've hauled you out of the Red Lion after you tore up the place, Tommy?" One cop asked, eyebrow arched.

"Broken anyone's jaw lately, Tommy?" The other interjected.

Dean winced.

"Yeah, okay, so I've got a temper," Tommy conceded, biting his bottom lip nervously. He turned to Dean, gray eyes large in a face so pale his freckles stood out in 3D. "But not with my grandma, man! She's all I got!"

Dean tapped the air. "I believe you; calm down." He looked over at the cop standing behind Tommy. "Sounds like you guys got some work to do. I'll take him home."

The cop with the notebook shook his head. "Not to his grandma's. Place is sealed off for now, 'til we figure out what went on."

Dean shot a glance at Tommy, who was looking paler by the second.

"Sealed off?" Tommy managed. "Like…like crime scene tape and shit?"

The policeman raised an eyebrow. "An eighty-year-old woman was beaten unconscious, man."

"Well…where'm I s'posed to go?" Tommy asked, plaintively, sounding like Oliver facing the evil Bill Sikes.

The cops shrugged, then glanced at Dean. Swearing softly under his breath, Dean put his hand on Tommy's shoulder, thinking quickly.

"Hey," he said gently, grabbing Tommy's attention. "You got any friends? Anyone you can stay with?"

Tommy licked his lips, nervously. His eyes darted along the linoleum floor as if hoping the answer would be written there. He looked up, finally, relief plain on his face. "Mason," he said. "He's got a room in the back of the shop."

"Think he'll let you use it?" Dean asked.

"He's let me stay there before when," he broke off, shooting a furtive glance at the police. "Well, when I've needed to, uh…sleep off a few."

Dean nodded, glancing once more at the cops. "I'll take him back to Mason's."

The two policemen step aside, conferred, then with a final parting warning to Tommy, they left. The people openly watching the exchange resumed their disinterest the moment the uniforms departed. Dean took Tommy's arm and steered him off to the corner of the room, his PT appointment completely forgotten.

"You better be playing me straight," Dean warned the kid.

"Swear to God, man. I had nothing to do with it."

"Your grandma okay?"

Tommy sighed, running a trembling hand through his red hair. "She's pretty shaken up. Was talking kinda crazy when they let me see her."

"How so?" Dean frowned.

"Said she's been hearing voices. Said things keep disappearing from the house. Thinks someone is breaking in 'cause she keeps finding pictures off the walls, light bulbs and mirrors broken, random stuff like that."

Dean felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. "She ever complain about cold spots in the house?"

Tommy shrugged. "Yeah, but…dude, it's December. Old house and all."

"How about you?" Dean pressed. "You see any of this stuff?"

Tommy shook his head. "Naw, man. It always happens when I'm at work."

"Not even the mirrors?"

"Well, they're her little hand mirror things. She probably dropped them."

"Yeah, probably," Dean nodded, thinking. He needed to talk to Sam. "She staying at the hospital for a bit?"

Tommy nodded. "They want to give her a psych evaluation, I guess. She was plenty pissed when she heard that."

"I bet." He stared hard at Tommy for a moment, wondering if he was as savvy as Mason. "Where's your grandma's house, Tommy?"

Tommy answered automatically. "Over off of Peterson. Other side of the river. It's this old, stone farmhouse. Like _old_ old."

Dean nodded, turning the kid and putting a hand on his shoulder. He _really_ needed to talk to Sam. "Think you could drop me off at my place before you head to Mason's?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah, sure. Hey," he turned against Dean's hand, facing him. "Thanks, man. Really. The cops in the town don't really like me much." He stuck out his right hand to shake Dean's.

Dean glanced down, turning his own scarred hand over, then gave Tommy a smile, clapping him on the shoulder and lightly shoving him forward, avoiding the handshake. He wasn't ready for that yet.

"Don't mention it, kid."

www

Sam looked up from his email the minute he heard the front door shut.

"Sam!"

He started from his room at a hurried pace, responding to the urgency in Dean's tone. It took him a moment to register that he'd heard his brother say his name without the clenched-teeth slur he'd gotten used to over the last six weeks. Rounding the corner, a hand gripping the door-frame of his room, he found Dean with his eyes, his first thought to look at his brother's jaw line as if he could actually see a difference there.

"Hey!"

Dean shot a glance at him, pulling off his leather jacket and dropping it across the back of the couch.

"Dude, I gotta talk to you," Dean declared, crossing the room with barely a trace of his ever-present limp.

"What happened to your jaw?" Sam asked, though the answer was obvious: the wires had come off today.

"That's not important right now." Dean waved a hand in the air.

He stopped in the center of the room, his eyes tracking Sam's approach with a glint in them that Sam hadn't seen in..., well, months. Since long before Detroit. Since before they lost Jo and Ellen. Sam was so taken with the light he saw in Dean's expression he missed what his brother was telling him.

"Wait, what was that? You got a job? Where? Downtown?"

Dean frowned at him. "No, not _a_ job. A _job_! A hunt!"

That caught Sam like a fist to the stomach. He actually had to take a step back before he answered. "You…you found a hunt? Where the hell were you?"

Dean stepped forward as if drawn by Sam's retreat. "At the hospital," he said. "This kid, Tommy – long story there, but I'll go into that later – his grandma was brought in after getting beat up pretty bad and by the description I'd say poltergeist, but we'd have to check for EMF—"

"Dean!" Sam barked, breaking in.

He took a step forward, his hand up in an effort to stem the sudden – and shockingly clear – torrent of words pouring from his brother. After weeks of barely speaking two words inside an hour, this rush of excitement from Dean was almost dizzying. Not only that, but Sam thought immediately of the email to Rufus and Sheriff Mills he was drafting back in his room.

The email saying that he and Dean were retiring and to share Bobby's books with other hunters, or libraries or researchers who might get some use out of them.

"What?" Dean replied, blinking at Sam uncomprehendingly.

Sam stared at his brother's guileless eyes, large in a face narrowed by circumstance, the scars around his left one standing out as a stark reminder of what had happened the last time they'd gone on a hunt.

"We're not…_hunting_," Sam tried, knowing his words sounded hollow against his brother's fervor.

"What are you talking about?" Dean scoffed, pulling his head back slightly in disbelief. "'Course we are. You're fit, I'm better—"

"The hell you are!" Sam snapped. "You just got _wires_ taken off your jaw today, Dean."

Dean tipped his hands open in a shrug as if to say _yeah, so_ but all it did was draw Sam's attention to his bandaged palm.

"You hardly sleep. You can't shoot, you can barely walk for more than a few minutes at a time without limping," Sam continued. "How the hell're you gonna go out there and fight some…some…_spirit?_"

Sam watched his brother drop his chin, his eyes losing their innocence and light in a heartbeat. He'd forgotten how dangerous Dean could look when he wanted to.

"I don't need my right hand to fire a sawed-off full of rock salt," Dean growled.

Shoving a hand through his hair, Sam shifted his weight and tried a different tactic. "How do you know this is even a hunt, huh? Could be some kinda of…domestic disturbance."

Dean lifted an eyebrow. "Pull your head outta your ass, Sammy."

"I've been reading the paper every day, Dean," Sam snapped. "I haven't seen anything that looks like a hunt."

"Because you haven't _wanted_ to," Dean shot back, anger lacing his words, honesty finally coming forth. "If you wanted to bury our heads in the sand and live a Beaver Cleaver life then you probably shouldn't have settled in on the Hellmouth."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Oh, gimme a break."

"Domestic disturbance?" Dean stepped forward, no trace of the weakness that had been dogging his every step for six weeks. "Electrical storm? Animal attack? These are our _trigger words_, man."

Sam shook his head. "No, Dean."

Dean took another step forward. "I've been living your whole fantasy life here, Sammy, hanging in there while you started freakin' _nesting_," he spat the word, backing Sam up a step, "because I couldn't do anything else. I could barely _breathe_ without help."

Sam blinked, feeling something begin to tremble inside of him as the realization that Dean had simply been lying in wait blossomed clear and bright inside his mind.

"But, I'm better now," Dean pressed. "And I'm ready to get back to our goddamn _job_."

"Well, I'm not!" Sam yelled. "I'm _not_ okay. And I quit this job."

Sam was uncomfortably aware of how close his brother had gotten to him. It was as if he felt a current between them – a kind of static electricity that rolled and snapped inside of Sam's perception as emotions boiled. He knew instinctively that if he were to touch Dean right now it would set off something and he suddenly didn't care. He'd worked so hard all of these weeks to help take care of Dean without actually _touching_ him, without accidentally triggering whatever that connection between them now was, that he wanted to test it again, to use it.

"You can't quit," Dean informed him, voice low and dangerous, eyes hot. "You can't walk away knowing what's out—"

"_Nothing_ is out there, Dean!" Sam roared, reaching out and grabbing a fist full of Dean's shirt. At that Dean blinked, drawing his head back, a flash of fear slipping across his expression like mercury. Sam didn't miss the way his brother's eyes darted to his fist. "You just _want_ there to be because you don't have anything else!"

Sam knew he'd hit below the belt, but he was too wound up to stop. He'd wanted an end to the hunt since the moment he saw his brother hooked up to machines – again – barely surviving.

Dammit, he _needed _to stop hunting, to _end_ that part of their lives. If he started again now, he'd lose himself to it. He knew that with every slam of his heart. He'd tried in different ways to tell Dean nearly every day, but his brother hadn't _listened_.

And now he wanted to go back out into the world, fighting evil…for _what_? They didn't have to look for Dad, they didn't have to avenge Mom, their souls weren't on the hook, they didn't have a clear enemy to stop, there wasn't an angel intent on using them as vessels.

"If you would take one look around—"

"And see what, Sam?" Dean hadn't pulled out of Sam's grasp. He looked up at Sam's face, eyes challenging. "That the world's _normal_ now? All the bad guys said fuck it and left?"

"Yes!" Sam yelled. "We _beat_ them, Dean. We stopped it!"

Sam shoved Dean away, watching as his brother scrambled to catch his balance, his barely-healed hip not quite up to the task. Unable to help himself, Sam lifted an eyebrow and tilted his head as Dean staggered.

"Oh, yeah, you're up to fighting speed," he mocked. Dean's lips curled into a snarl, but Sam didn't heed the warning. "You ready to go a few rounds with a witch, Dean? Think those screws keeping your ribs from stabbing through your lungs'll hold up when some spirit tries to throw you through a wall?"

He stepped forward, mindless to the way Dean had squared his stance, eyes leveling. He was too caught up in how _right_ he was about this. Dean had _no business_ thinking he could head out there and do this job, not now – not anymore!

Dean was a taped-together jigsaw puzzle waiting for the next hard wind to blast him apart.

And Sam was damn sure not going to let that happen.

"How 'bout you make a fist for me, Dean?" Sam pressed, gesturing toward Dean's right hand.

"Fuck you, Sam," Dean snarled.

"No, really," Sam pressed, stepping forward until there was barely a person's width between them. "Grip a knife. Hold a gun. _Something_." Sam could see Dean trembling, a barely-restrained containment of rage. "You think there's a spirit out there? How you going to fight it off when you can't even make a fist?"

Sam never saw the swing coming. He'd been so focused on Dean's wounded right hand that his brother's left caught him across the cheekbone and sent him staggering. The impact was hard in and of itself, but the smack of skin-against-skin shook through him. It was too fast, too startling to really register anything but _pain_ – and not physical pain, either.

It was an angry, impotent, _haunted_ pain that left Sam spinning.

He put a hand to his cheek and caught his balance, shooting his eyes to Dean. His brother was pale, his green eyes large, but the angry set of his mouth told Sam that no emotional shock-wave was going to stop him from showing Sam just how _un_affected he was by his new physical limitations.

With a gut-deep growl, Dean lunged at him. Sam had one second to react; he gasped, threw his hands up in protection, and managed to catch Dean around the wrists as his brother reached for him. The effect was instantaneous.

Sam felt himself falling backwards, crashing without pause against the wall that separated their small living room from the narrow hall to their bedrooms, Dean falling full-force against him, his eyes blind, his body shaking from the shock of contact with Sam.

They slipped to the ground in a tangle of limbs as Sam saw with profound clarity how true his words had been – and how cruel. The images that assaulted him were all of John: their father's journal, watching John's hands field dress a .45, showing Dean how to make silver bullets. He _felt_ Dean drink in every spare glance of pride cast his way, felt his effort to hit every target, memorize every page of lore, get the spirit the first time out just to get another of those glances.

With a low groan of pained effort, Sam pushed outward, almost physically throwing the images away, and with them, Dean. His brother skidded away from him across the floor, the force of Sam's shove surprising them both. With a grunt, Dean crashed against the legs of the small table they'd set up in their kitchen, stopping his momentum.

Sam lay where he'd fallen, breath hammering out through parted lips, his ears ringing with the memory of his father's voice, his hands tingling where they'd gripped his brother's skin. He blinked, sweat tenting his lashes, and peered across the small room to where Dean lay. His brother was alarmingly pale, eyes still closed, left hand pressed flat against the floor, bracing himself away from the furniture.

Sam could see him shaking.

"Dean?" Sam rasped.

"Shut up, Sam," Dean gasped, pain weaving an almost visible pattern through his words.

"I'm sorry." Sam pushed upright on shaking arms. "I didn't mean—"

"Yeah," Dean rumbled, licking his lips and using his left arm to rise up until he could prop himself on his right elbow. "You did."

He hadn't, though. He knew there was so much more to Dean; he needed _Dean_ to see that. He was just…he'd just been so….

"I was angry."

"You're joking." Dean opened his eyes, letting the sarcasm ease the tension in the room.

He sat up with a wince, leaning gingerly against the table. Sam knew his back had to be killing him; he hadn't hit hard, but Dean wasn't healed enough for any kind of physical force against his ribs.

"I shouldn't have said what I did," Sam confessed softly. "It was…mean."

"It was true," Dean muttered quietly. He looked over at Sam, resignation in his gaze. "I know you saw something."

Sam looked away. He couldn't bring himself to tell Dean about the images of John. It seemed that whatever he saw when they connected were subconscious memories; not Dean's exact thoughts but the ones fueling his emotions, his nightmares, his reasons for doing and saying what he did.

Dean had no way of knowing what he was revealing to Sam in those moments of contact; it was too hard for Sam to articulate something he knew would cause his brother pain. He knew because he'd _felt_ it as keenly as if it had been his own.

"Doesn't matter," Sam said, keeping his eyes away from Dean as he slumped back against the wall. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw Dean pull his damaged hand into his lap, cradling it.

"I'm not like you, Sam," Dean said quietly. Sam waited him out. "I'm not gonna…find a job, find a girl, buy a house, settle down. I'm too…," he shook his head helplessly. "I'm no good to anyone. Not like this."

Sam went cold, thinking of the letter that he'd tucked into his back pocket. _If I did have a choice in all of this, I would choose to find you. _

"You never wanted this life, man," Dean continued, tipping his head back against the table and closing his eyes. "You've wanted out for so many years…."

_And I'd choose to stay this time._

"We _both_ can get out now, Dean," Sam all-but whispered. "This is our chance."

Dean opened his eyes, dropping his gaze to Sam, not lowering his head. "I'm never getting out, Sam. You were right. I got nothing else."

Sam stared at his brother, his eyes burning. Dean didn't shift his gaze away. The house grew quiet around them. A heavy quiet, weighted with all the things they weren't saying.

Sam could practically hear crickets chirping. In California.

"I can't do it anymore, Dean," Sam said, tears kicking the back of his voice. "I can't risk it."

Dean's brows pulled together. "Risk what?"

"I drank…_gallons_ of demon blood, man," Sam said, watching as Dean flinched with the reminder. "And I healed faster than I should have because of it."

"You don't know that—"

"_You_ are the righteous man, Dean," Sam interrupted. "Not me. The only power I have comes from darkness. I might be able to use it for the greater good, but not without destroying myself in the process."

"Sammy…."

"You can't tell me that's not true."

"The hell I can't," Dean shot back, the edge to his voice drawing Sam's eyes up. "Goddammit, Sammy, you are the best of us, don't you see that?"

Sam shook his head, feeling tears build, burning his eyes.

"That blood you drank? You did it to save the fucking world." Dean's voice became steel. "You were willing to fall into the Pit for _everyone_. Don't you dare think there's some kind of Dark Side in you. Not for one minute."

"I need this to be over, man," Sam confessed. "No more hunting."

"I know, but…Sam, we _can't_ turn our back on the truth. We can't ignore it. _I_ can't ignore it."

The need he heard behind Dean's words vied for strength with the opposite need Sam felt inside himself.

"What if you're wrong?" Sam asked. "What if they really are gone? What if we really did do it, and you go out there to hunt and…nothing?"

Dean swallowed audibly, looking down. "I don't know, man." They sat quietly for several minutes, then Dean lifted a shoulder. "I'm not wrong, though."

Sam huffed, shaking his head. "You're one arrogant son of a bitch, Dean."

Dean almost smiled.

"Promise me something," Sam said, pulling his legs beneath him as he prepared to stand.

"What?"

"Just…say it first. _Promise_ me."

Dean frowned, wary.

"You _owe_ me this," Sam said, knowing he was on thin ice.

Dean owed him nothing. Every moment of care-taking Sam had spent on his brother over the last six weeks was in payment for the beating Dean had sustained to save Sam's life. It was in payment for sacrificing his own childhood to take care of Sam. It was in payment for Dean going to Hell to give Sam another chance. But if there was one thing Sam knew about his brother it was that Dean could never deny him. Not when he knew it was something Sam really needed.

And he really needed this.

"Okay," Dean replied, stretching the word out like caramel. "I promise."

"_Try_ to find something else."

Dean stared at him and Sam felt something shift in his heart at the hopelessness he saw slide through his brother's gaze.

"Sammy…."

"You promised," Sam reminded him. "And I can help, you know. Lawrence isn't a bad town."

Dean sagged a little against the table. For a moment he looked small and sad and so utterly alone that Sam wanted to cry.

"Okay," Dean replied finally. "I'll try."

And though he heard the bleakness inside that promise, though he knew it echoed the promise Dean had made to live a normal life after Sam said yes to Lucifer, Sam smiled with relief, because Dean had _said_ it. And he would always have that to fall back on.

"Thanks."

He stood up and crossed the floor to Dean, holding out his hand to help his brother to his feet. Careful to grasp Dean's long-sleeve-covered arm rather than his hand, he eased his brother up, steadying him as Dean caught his breath. Sam could practically feel the muscles along Dean's back flinching as they stretched once more.

"Want the rice bag?"

Dean shook his head. Sam was about to press the issue, but decided better of it since he'd been the one to hurt Dean. Again.

"We need to figure out what is going on with us, Sam," Dean said softly, looking down at Sam's hand on his arm.

"I know," Sam muttered, reluctantly.

He almost didn't _want_ to know. Their luck, it meant something more than either of them wanted to handle.

"Need to stop it or use it…or something," Dean said.

"Use it?" Sam frowned.

"Or something," Dean repeated. His voice dropped. "Figure out how to block you from seeing so much."

Sam's frown deepened as Dean stepped away from his grasp, moving around the table and pulling his wounded hand in close to his chest.

"I'll reach out to Rufus later," he offered. "See if he's found anything."

Dean nodded, gaze miles away, then, "Can I borrow your laptop?" he asked, unexpectedly.

"Uh," Sam blinked, thinking of his unfinished email. "Yeah, sure. Why? You going to Google amulet side-effects?"

"Funny," Dean said, looking at Sam. "I'm, uh… gonna get the Impala fixed tomorrow. Want to search up some parts."

The lie was so smooth that Sam _almost_ didn't register Dean's tell: a slight lift of his chin so that his gaze was on Sam's cheekbone, not his eyes. He wasn't sure what his brother was really after, but he knew it had nothing to do with his car.

"Okay," Sam replied, trying desperately to think of a reason _not_ to loan it to him. "I'll go get it."

"Oh, and Sammy?" Dean called, putting his hands to his lower back and stretching it a bit. "Know any place I can get a warmer coat?"

At that Sam almost grinned, tossing a quick look at his brother's ever-present leather jacket. "Yeah, I can think of a few." He glanced at the thinning scars along Dean's jaw. "One happens to be next to a bakery."

Dean glanced at him quickly. "Pie?"

"Supposed to have the best in town," Sam shared, the unspoken _see, it can be good here_ plea shimmering around his words.

"I miss pie," Dean sighed as if the baked good were a long-lost lover.

"We can go tonight."

"Thanks, man," Dean replied, twisting his back until Sam heard a crackle of joints.

Sam went back to the bedroom, looking down at his email screen. After a moment's contemplation, he deleted the last three lines of the message, keeping only that he and Dean were retiring.

Taking a breath, he typed, _"But just in case, can you ship some of Bobby's books that might have sentimental meaning to us? I'll list a few I can think of here. Also, you mentioned that you and Bobby got that amulet Dean used at Stull a long time ago. If you could send any information about it…anything at all…I'd appreciate it. Especially if there's anything in there about what happens if you…use it._"

He then listed the books on spirits, demons, gods that he could remember off the top of his head, and the centuries old Bible he knew Dean had poured over several times after finding out their apparent destinies. He believed that he was right: evil had retreated after Armageddon was averted. But…he'd learned to hope for the best and prepare for the worst.

Even if the worst meant demons.

_Don't you dare think there's some kind of Dark Side in you. Not for one minute._

He wanted his brother to be right. He wanted it so badly he had to press a hand flat against his heart to keep it from slamming so hard against his ribs. And what he was asking of Dean…it was not going to be easy for his brother to fulfill. Having some of Bobby's books around might make peace, and Sam was going to need that if he was going to get Dean to accept a future without hunting.

* * *

**a/n**: As you've probably picked up by now, I'm working to get them to a point with the choices made in Part 1 that they have an entirely different set of circumstances surrounding them when Part 2 begins. I hope you're entertained - I thank you for your time and for your gift of a review.


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